


The oblivious vs. the obvious

by Moahoa



Series: Nightsilver [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse (2016)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nightcrawler - Freeform, nightsilver, quickcrawler, quicksilver - Freeform, slow burn sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8514790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moahoa/pseuds/Moahoa
Summary: In which everyone except Kurt Wagner slowly figures out that Peter has a crush on him, including Peter himself.Now featuring: robots, meddling teenagers, explosions, sibling rivalry and awful rolemodels





	1. Planting a seed

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this was supposed to be one of those really long oneshots, you know with random semi-chronological moments?
> 
> But I am weak and it's already 18 pages long, just in it's outlined state... 
> 
> The first part took up 6 A4's in word. 
> 
> Help me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Shikipon, updated June 1st 2017

“You’ve got to stop harassing, Kurt.“

When Jean is on the march, Peter knows to stop, but the words still catch him off guard. He failed to understand why he couldn’t just have a nice little morning jog around the city without interruptions from the police, professors or know-it-all psychics.

“Just because he’s too nice to speak up, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know when to stop. Consider this a first and only warning. “ Jean Grey continues to speak without pause, leaving no room for any kind of response… Or well, there wouldn’t have been any room if she wasn’t speaking to the one and only Quicksilver.

“Wow-wow-wow, slow down there Jeanie. Harassment? Frankly, I’m offended. I’ve been nothing but helpful– ok, I guess that one time with the cheese was a bit much but someone needs to teach the kid ’bout humor.”

After the staff found out and consequently put a stop to the most fun he had had the past 10 years, he had kicked his messing around down a notch. A quick talk with the professor had made him realize that if he could take advantage of the fact that East Berlin and North America were very different places, so could other people. After which he had diverted his attention to messing around for educational purposes only.

Just last Friday he had helped the guy with his calculus homework (by yelling the answers very loudly as he flew past the very quiet library) and yesterday he had collected 20 of the 21 chips that had exploded into the air (he had eaten the 21st as his _good-guy-fee._ Whoever thought it was a clever idea to put the not only clawed but three-fingered mutant in charge of opening childproof packaging had to be stopped.)

Peters methods might not be the most pedagogical of approaches, but he honestly hoped Kurt didn’t think of it the way Jean insinuated, he only wan-

His thoughts skid to a halt when Jean’s expression changes. Usually, he thinks too quickly for her to make out much, but it never bodes well when something does go through. She just stares, her mouth slightly open. Then her eyes squint just a little and she looks at him as if maybe standing still for this long has turned him into an actual snail, a slimy one at that.

He thinks about five responses in the span of three seconds, ranging from comically waving in front of her face, asking if she’s ok and dropping her into the lake. Self-preservation kicks in before he can do any of the above, so he waits, tapping his foot like _Bugs Bunny_ on acid.

” _Weeell?_ "

“You ... like him.“ Her face scrunches up like she didn’t just taste air but lemon-juice.

“So? We _are_ on the same team. I’m not gonna get very far with saving the world, protecting mutantkind and all that by hating the guy, am I?”

”No, you’re…" She trails off like she’s trying to stop the words from coming out, but failing.

Peter watches in silence as she tries to collect herself.

"You _liiiiiike_ him.“ She finally hisses. It sounds like a prophecy, a bad one that entails murder.

He snorts.

“Okay, this conversation over.”

 

* * *

 

Jean, busybody extraordinaire, has gone delusional.

That’s the only rational conclusion.

That she’s finally began to break down after constantly having to listen to the whiny thoughts of moody teens all day.

I mean, it’s not that Peter is unaware that he likes _Kurt_ _._ He’s a cool guy, despite the blue and all. If he was spending more time around him than the others, then it was because the others weren’t as fun to mess with. Also, “the others” consisted of a lovey-dovey -cheerleader / jock-style couple. A couple that clearly wanted double dates bad enough to project their feelings onto whoever just happened to be near enough. Really, he was doing Kurt a favor by giving him other options.

Besides, he had been interested in enough girls to know that his quick thinking came with a vivid imagination. He would have noticed if he suddenly developed a fetish for blue pretty-boys from the old country. He would _know_.

Not that knowing ended well for him in the past. Usually, it could be summed up by him coming on way too strong to people he had known for too short a time, for anyone to take him seriously. When time passes a million times faster for you than the object of your affection, it’s a bit too easy to misjudge the other person’s level of interest or even chance to develop said interest.

 _Playground romance_ wasn’t his thing anyway. At this point, he had started seeing himself as a sort of lone ranger. _Swish pew-pew swish_. So it wasn’t like he had had many friends or even the chance to get close enough to anyone to get interested in for years. Even before he gave up on the world there hadn’t been anyone that caught his eye for more than a day at best anyway. Unless you count that girl in high school and we _do not_ count that girl in high school. _It did not happen._

Growing up with Eric Lensherr’s genes, no outlets and being able to sidestep parental supervision most of his life didn’t exactly make him an expert on handling emotions either. So, staying single was probably for the best.

Not to mention, that even though Peter never had much of an attention span when it came to church (despite his heritage), he still knew that the one thing the local Rabbi, Minister, and Imam had always agreed on was that the homosexuals were the 2nd plague right after the mutants.  And as if praying wasn’t obvious enough, Kurt was fricking covered in “holy markings” (or “badass tattoos” depending on who’s authority you’d rely on). The guy was religious with a big R and faithful and homosexuals didn’t mix.

So, even if Peter considered himself fairly open-minded, being a mutant and all.

(But, _dating a guy_ kind of open-minded? Pfft, no? Definitely no, nope, _no_ , negative ... nein _ha-ha_!)

That’d be the end of story because any more-than-friendly affection towards the guy and he’d probably think he was trying to lure him into sin or something equally hilarious. As hilarious as Peter finds the thought, the scenario plays out a bit too well and of him and images of him and Kurt doing _R-rated things_ flood his mind a bit too easily.

_Heh … weird…_

Maybe whatever was making Jean delusional was contagious?

Or maybe being a mutant just makes you more likely to be all kinds of fucked up mentally as well?

God knows he had encountered enough over-powered psychopaths with a taste for megalomania to verify that statement.

Would that mean his dad could be one of **_them?_** A delusional terrifyingly crazy homosexual?

Or … even the professor, hiding in plain sight among *gasp* children?

See, although hilarious, that just wouldn’t fly. If it did, he wanted no part in that to take off.

Yeah right, could you even imagine it though?

 _Operation X-Men_ \- the soap opera. » _Oh, no captain, man aboard! I’m drowning in the red seas of your eyes. I’m sorry doctor we were too late, it seems like this man was just too-«_

“ _Guten Morgen._ ”

Nightcrawler, the one and only, sits down across from him, his tail holding his teacup and all.

“Mornin’.“ Peter gives a dramatic fake yawn, as is customary when you meet someone at 05:30 in the morning.

It’s not unusual for Peter to bump into the teleporter this early in the day, usually, it’s on his way back to the dorms. Kurt is one of the few early risers and Peter just forgets to sleep sometimes. Truth be told, because of that, he hasn’t eaten breakfast with anyone in years, so he doesn’t really know what else to say.

Kurt doesn’t seem to care either way. He’s assembling a sandwich with the utmost focus, trying his best to spread the butter evenly, but failing miserably. Probably due to the simple fact that three clawed fingers and a tiny butter knife aren’t meant to go together. When he accidentally stabs the knife into the toast and spends a good 15,5 seconds trying to loosen it, Quicksilver has enough.

In the time it takes Kurt to blink, three sandwiches appear in front of him, complete with that disgusting breakfast sausage he likes to stuff his face with. "It was too sad to watch, man. You were killing that poor piece of toast. _Killing it!”_

He expects to get a hiss in reply, again as is customary when he fucks with the cat-wannabe of the squad. Instead, he is graced with the kind of tired smile that is usually reserved for bad jokes or witty quips during practice.

Suddenly, the silence feels heavy, speaking of that, his tongue also feels heavy. _Thump-ba-dump- thump-_ His heartbeat is suddenly in his ears.

It’s not like the boy in front of him is particularly attractive in the first place. Long face, rocker streaks, parted lips, pointy ears, _huge_ eyes ... There’s no reason for him to lose control of his heart or his tongue or any other goddamn body part for that matter.

When Kurt utters the first _th_ -, Quicksilver is already closing the door to his room.

 

* * *

 

 

After this morning’s little cognitive dysfunction, Quicksilver is glad to be back inside the holo-room.

Mystique’s been hounding them lately, scheduling more and more training sessions and upping the level at a speed not even he thought possible. Something is definitely in the woodworks and it both terrifies and excites him.

Even so, group training is rarely a challenge. Today’s exercise is pretty standard, sentinels and mystery environment. Judging by the gear he’s been given (boots with chunky spikes and a heavy windbreaker), he’s betting on a tundra.

He hates tundra.

Tundra always equals cold and cold makes everything move slower. He thinks Mystique might be doing this on purpose, picking environments to slow him down. Ever since he told her about his father she has looked at him differently. There’s no way to be sure though, he catches her staring at Kurt similarly sometimes, so maybe it’s just the way she is. Mysterious Mystique and all.

“Alright students, the simulation will start on my mark. I urge you to not stick too close together this time and remember to work as a team, your powers work best when combined." There's no doubt to who she’s directing the last comment at, as she stops at the end of their line up to stare straight at him.

“Aye, Captain!" He gives her a goofy salute and a wink just because he had never been too good with authority in general. Also, the whole team power-spiel is obvious bullshit, at least when Jean Grey is in the room. He saw what she did to Apocalypse, they all did (well sans Kurt who’d only heard the rumors thanks to him passing out). The point still stands, she could evaporate them all if she wanted to. If they’d ever face an enemy with that power level, they’d never stand a chance, no matter whatever cute pep-talk they’d bought into.

Mystique narrows her eyes like she wants to strangle him but chooses to take out her aggressions on the conveniently placed big red button on the wall instead. As always, a monotone robot voice starts counting down. He has no clue why either of those features even exists but he suspects that they’re just for the dramatic effect.

“3… 2 … 1… ACTIVATE”

The metal walls disappear in a flash of light and snow covered mountain tops surround them, overhead the artificial sky fills with thick gray clouds and chunks of ice in varying size cover the floor. It’s cold, freezing even. Judging by the fog that was turning into ice on his goggles, the temperature must’ve dropped at least a solid 20 degrees of 0.

“Fucking Tundra, I knew it!" He mutters bitterly, which earns him a jab from Scott.

“Focus." Scott hisses.

As if on cue the Sentinels descend, not from the floors or walls, but the _sky_ too. “That’s new.“ Quicksilver comments, because it is.

Turns out these ones can fly, or hover at least. Props to Hank for fixing that easily exploding jet motor-thing … or at least he hopes he has fixed it because Scott seems awfully eager to shoot them down, the way he’s sending shot after shot at their feet. Storm takes a similar approach, making the bad weather worse by adding spikes of lightning to the flurry of snow.

The wind is howling now, making verbal communication almost impossible and visual cues are far and few in-between. So Quicksilver puts his awful good-for-nothing new boots to work and tries to gain enough speed to race up the walls. He doesn’t succeed and quickly realizes that he can’t even gain enough momentum to lose the sentinel's sensors. Even his teammates can see him fail with the naked eye and it sucks.

At least his teammates aren’t fairing much better than he is – not that that’s a good thing considering they’re the people that’s supposed to have his back in “battle”, but like at least he’s not the WORST.

Jean looks like she’s about to sick all over the floor and she’s barely holding one of the sentinels still. Scott and Storm are too busy trying to score points and haven’t even noticed Jean's contribution. They are focusing their efforts on the other non-frozen two bots instead of helping her. So, Peter changes strategy and starts hurling snowballs at the one Scott has set his sight on (pun intended) and gains the attention of both active sentinels in the process. The sentinels change course and desperately try to hit him, but even with lead shoes, he’s too fast … a bit _too_ fast, actually.

Quicksilver changes direction so quickly that although the Sentinels can follow, Scott can’t. At least without risking casualties. After two laps around the room and watching Storm finally get a hold of her lightning enough to blast the paralyzed sentinel to the floor, Quicksilver has enough.

“Just hit the damn things already! Just pick one and go!“ He yells as he flies past.

“Easy for you to say! Just _hold still_ , for two seconds!”

So he stops in his tracks, the Sentinel hovering before him.

“Happy?! I’m—“

There’s an explosion from behind. He turns around just in time to see Nightcrawler take out the second sentinel. He had teleported onto it’s back and is slitting its thrusters with his claws and tail in one smooth motion.

Cool.

Nightcrawler’s face is suddenly before his, only inches apart, arms tugging at his waist. Before Quicksilver gets the chance to protest, he’s on the other side of the room, face burning. Ok, no more playing second fiddle, time to get serious. Just like that, he decides to ditch the spikes, vibrating them off with his hands.

He’s done just in time to see the last sentinel get its leg exploded and fall to the floor. The motion makes the frost on its blank face melt in a way that almost resembles tears. It’s super creepy, so he drop-kicks it mid-air because he can. Then only narrowly avoids getting knocked out as the sentinels start surprise-blasting from said faces.

The fight may have only just begun, but Quicksilver is freezing. He ripped his gloves removing the spikes and it’s taken too long. At this point, he’s in no mood to put up with anyone else when he doesn’t have to.

So he doesn’t.

Time slows to a crawl as he speeds around, gently maneuvering both sentinels and X-Men into place. Jean is set to take out the first with a twist into Storm’s lightning, Scott gets to take out the other two because Quicksilver is just that nice. And Nightcrawler? Well, he’ll get to trip Scott with his tail because Quicksilver isn’t _that_ nice. In nanoseconds, he has adjusted and readjusted angles and trajectories. In half that time, he has calculated refractions and blast radiuses. Lastly, he' twisted arms and legs into comical poses, for that dramatic flair they seem to like so much.

He’s just about to stop in his tracks and watch the show when he realizes that Kurt is not where he was 0.02 seconds ago. In fact, he isn’t even in the same part of the room. His eyes scan the scene only to find him rematerializing on the back of the first sentinel that’s about to get blown to bits.

He’s going to get electrocuted.

Performing the most ungraceful dive ever, he manages to grab hold of Kurt’s waist and push him off the Sentinel just as the blast hits, starting the chain reaction of explosions. The dive knocks him off his feet, which makes him lose momentum and he gets caught in the shockwave. He can’t get his footing on the ice without the damn spikes. Before long the blast has knocked them together in a spiral of motion. It carries them, rolling unceremoniously, all the way across the room.

As the cherry on top, he gets a loud smack in the face by Nightcrawler’s tail when they finally hit the wall.

“What the hell just happened?“ Scott screeches, still standing now that Nightcrawler’s tail didn’t reach its mark. Quicksilver tries to remove himself from Kurt to explain but fails miserably as said tail is still wrapped around them both like a scaly blue rope.

After some awkward flailing and being cursed in what he thinks is both Latin and German, Quicksilver is finally on his feet and able to assess the situation. And what a mess he’s made.

Mystique is out from her hiding spot, tending to an unconscious but still floating Storm, Jean is cradling her head in shock and pain judging by the debris strewn around her. The ever worried boyfriend, Scott, is on his way over.

Not really knowing what to make of the situation, Quicksilver turns his attention back to Nightcrawler, who’s still on the ground. He chews on his lips nervously, they feel chapped after the snow and the wind and reaches out a hand.

“Sooo, uuuh, you ok?” The words sounded significantly less lame more like words in his head.

Kurt’s eyes snap from the destruction to stare straight into his soul. He doesn’t grasp the hand as hoped, but teleports into a standing position and hisses.

_Back to the usual, I guess?_

The look he and the rest of the team gives him, makes Peter wish he still lived in his mother’s basement.

 


	2. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has unknowingly gotten Kurt's attention, a curious Kurt will not be satisfied until he has all the answers and Jubilee just wants to go to the mall. 
> 
> *UPDATE: Beta read by Shikipon*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok but guys, this was 7 A4's long. It's growing. Sweet baby jesus I need help. I tried to focus on fleshing out Kurt's character this time, also surprise Jubilee.

It’s only been slightly over two months since Kurt first came to Xavier's school for gifted youngsters, but it feels like a lifetime already. Adjusting to life in America isn’t as easy as he had thought it would be, even if he had not been a fan of East Germany while he had been there. The culture here is confusing to him more often than not. Especially the food and the need to put said food in tiny colorful containers that the Americans seem to enjoy. One of which has become Kurt's new favorite. The one he is coincidentally munching on right now.

Chips.

Jubilee told him it was made from potatoes, but he didn’t, _doesn’t_ , believe her. Potatoes do not taste like salty air, cheese or grilled meats. Chips could be all of those things, but never once tasted like potatoes, at least not like any he’d had back in Germany. She had laughed when he had told her so and once again welcomed him to America. He had smiled even though he didn’t understand, as was often the case.

Sometimes he wished people would just explain instead of laughing or smiling. Back in Germany people where more direct, something that wasn’t always pleasant when you did not fit in, but something he’d come to miss all the same. It was frustrating to always have to listen for what was not being said instead of just saying it.

Not that he’s sure that whatever she meant could have been translated, as the Americans used individual words and tone to change the meaning of a sentence, not grammatical structures as he was used to in German.

In the German language and culture there was, in general, a clearer divide between the informal and formal. Although he had spoken informally in the circus, the textbooks from which he had picked up English were made for the very formal education system. Because of this, said textbooks did not feature any informal or even American English.  In fact, every single book he’d picked up during his travels did not only exclude American vocabulary, but also put a lot of emphasis on developing a British accent.

He used to wonder why that was, but after living in America he started to think; _Maybe the American society itself is so informal one that no American English can be regarded as formal?_

The only topic the Americans seemed to be direct about was their opinions. It still surprised him just how freely his friends seemed to share the most provocative of statements, often and without any regard to any moral consensus. Though, to be fair, he wasn’t even sure there a moral consensus even existed. If there was one, he couldn’t see it for all the scantily clad women and neon.

Kurt has noted that because of the lack of common morale, there seems to be a total disregard of non-mutant authority among many of the younger students. Being caught shoplifting was seen as a rite of passage almost. He had once asked Scott why they stole when they didn’t have to. Scott had told him that some people just did things because no one could stop them and that’s why they had the danger room.

Just thinking of the place makes Kurt’s mind drift to the disaster that unraveled during last week’s group training and specifically the one that caused it.

 _Is the Quicksilver one of those people?_  
  
Someone doing things out of pure arrogance and disregard for others around him?

After everything they’d gone through with during the fight with Apocalypse, he doubted he was that kind of person.

Annoying? _Maybe_.

Overconfident in his own ability? _Definitely_.

 _But he had the right to be_ , Kurt thinks. _He saved the entire school, on his own, and then tried to take on Apocalypse to save them._

Sure, Jean was the one who landed the final blow, but Peter had suffered broken bones and almost died for the x-men.  His actions couldn’t be explained by him simply “being bad a bad person”.

Kurt finds himself sighing. Of all of his new friends, the speedster was the one he understood the least.

He went to training, but only the practical sessions.

He rarely came to class. The few times he’d seen him, he spent the time pulling pranks on the staff or fellow students. Somehow he still aced practically every exam.

He claimed he wasn’t the social type, but Kurt saw him or well traces of him everywhere.

In the hall– zipping by, scattering, then unscattering his papers.

In the library– a voice yelling the answers to his math quiz one by one, coming from a new corner each time.

In the kitchen– a bag of potato chips, poured neatly into a bowl just as he’d accidentally ripped it apart.

His antics didn’t bother Kurt as much as much as confuse him.  They hadn’t talked much since the _cheese incident_ and Kurt couldn’t tell if it was because Peter felt bad or because… well he couldn’t think of any other reason, but the thought that there might be one just made him more curious.

Kurt let’s out another sigh.

He really wished he knew why Peter did the things he did, but Peter never stuck around long enough for him to ask, or well, do anything of substance really…

“Why doesn’t the Quicksilver hang out?” The words fly out of his mouth before he gets a chance to process them.

“With us?“ Scott seems confused by the sudden breach of silence.

Jubilee snickers at him, as is usual when he makes what she calls his _confused-cat-face,_ and stuffs her face with a mouthful of jelly worms.

“I thought you lived together?“ Kurt tries again.

“We share a room, not values.“ Scott clarifies as that would explain the speedster’s absence, but as far as Kurt knows, Cyclops _hung around_ Kurt without sharing his belief in sin or God’s word.

”Pfft, I think the only one he’s interested in is you, Kurt.“ Jean adds in passing.

“Wait? Interested in Kurt? Weren’t you the one all »the way he is treating Kurt is wrong and I am going to end it« just last week?” Scott’s accusation both terrifies and intrigues the teleporter. First, Quicksilver isn’t a threat just because he is annoying. Secondly, why would Jean think he needed saving?

The _cheese incident_ aside, he had done a pretty good job in staying out of trouble the past month.

“What? You did not have to do that!“ He flattens his ears and flicks his tail to prove his point.

“Well, I didn’t end up doing anything. I changed my mind.“ Jean manages to sound casual and cryptic at the same time.

“Did Jean just admit defeat?“ Somehow Scott still picks up on something right away.

“Yeah, you never just change your mind.“ Jubilee chimes in, picking up on whatever Scott heard.

Kurt is once more out of the loop and finds himself trying to rack his brain of all his knowledge of the English language and comes up short, as per usual. Surely, he must have missed something. Despite his best efforts and rigorous studying, he still barely passed as fluent because of the aforementioned cultural differences and his accent. (No matter how loud or clear he tried to make his sentences, the th-‘s turned into z-‘s and his v’s became w’s, making words like “the” and “see” an absolute nightmare for his teammates.)

“No, I didn’t _even_ , ok?" She splutters angrily. "He’s still a jerk. He just … He just surprised me!”

Kurt has never heard Jean sound so defensive before, so guilty. She doesn’t elaborate or change the topic. So they all end up staring, waiting for her to explain. It takes a solid five minutes until the collective staring wears her down.

“He’s lonely…“ She starts, unsure and voice wavering. “Like uh … like a four-year-old, pulling pigtails because he thinks you- _wants_ you to be friends.“ Her eyes linger on Kurt as she speaks.

For a moment, it feels like she’s just talking to him and not addressing the group before anyone else notices her eyes flick away to look at a group of passing children. They’re playing some sort of make-believe game, the oldest is leading the charge with a stick towards the monkey bars. The others are smiling and laughing, seemingly without a care in the world.

Kurt didn’t see much kids back in Germany, well unless you count the ones that came to watch him (and the other aerialists) preform. He didn’t actually count those as the audience was hard to make out, at best, and obscured, at worst, by the stage lights.

Kurt didn’t get much spare time and rarely left the circus unless he had run errands for Margali as most of people, grown-up and child alike, tended to regard him with fear. Sometimes he wonders if he wasn’t made different–if he could’ve…

“ _Freunde_ …” The word slips out, again without thought. He’s not sure if he should be glad or insulted that only one of his friends seemed to have picked up enough German to understand what it meant.

“No, no, Kurt, _no!_ He’s been nothing but trouble!”  Jean chides.

He doesn’t appreciate when she reads his mind, but he doesn’t comment on it as he’s sure she wouldn’t if she could stop.

“Everyone deserves forgiveness.“ He tells her, his mind made up. It is what _he_ believes, regardless of moral consensus.

 

* * *

 

Kurt is still thinking about his troubled friend as the next morning comes. So much in fact, that he had risen even earlier than usual, hoping that he would bump into the speedster during breakfast again so that maybe he could get answers and put his thoughts to rest at last.

Instead, he ended up bumping into Jubilee. She had been very happy to see him, excited even. Turns out, that when you light breakfast cereal on fire with her sparks, it glows in all the colors of the rainbow. They had spent a good half hour trying it out with all kinds of brands, the sugary ones worked the best for some reason.

Kurt didn’t understand the science behind it, although Jubilee had done her best to explain, even going as far as to attract the attention of straight A-student Scott Summers, who had joined in to help. Limited vocabulary and overall schooling on his part were probably the main culprits as to why he hadn’t understood it. In the end, he was so embarrassed by his lack of understanding that he excused himself early, promising to meet with her and the others later, just to get away.

It’s that chain of events that led him to seek comfort than in the great library.

The smell of decaying paper reminds him of home, not that he had had many books to speak of  – or even time to read. (The only books he’d ever read for pleasure was a few beat up folktales he shared with his sister and a well-worn copy of the Holy Bible, given to him by a young clergyman that had traveled with the circus from Rosenheim to Munich.) It’s probably just that old books doesn’t smell like the artificial flavoring, perfume or cleaning supplies, like everything else seems to do in America.

While his eyes wander along the tall shelves full of collections of fact and adventures, idly wondering what to immerse himself in this time, he comes up with a plan to attract the attention of his self-appointed guardian angel. It’s genius in its simplicity, all he has to do is reach for a book that’s clearly out of reach and-

Nightcrawler’s tail wraps around Quicksilver's wrist just as he plucks the book from the shelf and, _BAMF_ , they’re across the room.

Quicksilver looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

”Hiiiii.“ He speaks slowly, probably disoriented from the sudden teleportation.

Kurt’s practically beaming with pride. _I can’t believe that actually worked!_

He accidentally tightens his tail’s grip on Peter’s arm in excitement.

“Hello.“ Kurt tries to sound casual and fails miserably. As it's hard to sound casual with one's tail wrapped around another man's wrist after having planned a scheme to trick said other man and catch him like a fish.

”Ok, if that’s– “

Kurt doesn’t want to waste his chance and interrupts, pointing to the headphones the speedster seemed to carry around his neck almost religiously.

”What are you listening too?”

”What?”

” _What are you listening to?_ “ Kurt raises his voice and does his best to pronounce the words clearer this time – making a sure to emote every syllable.

When he still doesn’t get a response, he fishes out his own cassette player. It’s an ugly yellow that’s been worn down and clawed off at the edges. The thing is practically half dead at this point and he has to twist the cord to hear anything, but it’s one of his most prized possessions.

“The professor got me this. My favorite is Michael Jackson. “ He explains sheepishly as if his obsession with the King of Pop wasn’t obvious by his attire.

(Kurt couldn’t help being obsessed, not even in the GDR where American music might not have been outright forbidden, but very hard to come by as contact with the west was limited at best and seen as extremely risky at worst.

Him and his sister– Amanda– and the other children of the carnies that were deemed old enough or trustworthy (which was practically all of them), had spent many a nights sneaking off to crouch around the beat up sound system. It was an ancient thing only ever used for show tunes, but as it was a repurposed remnant of the war, it just also happened to have a barely functioning radio that sometimes tuned into American frequencies if you turned the knobs just right. The moment the stereo sputtered out the up and downs of “Beat it”s infamous electric riff, he’d been hooked. )

Kurt continues by pushing the headphones into Peter’s personal space, finally detaching his tail in the process.

“You can listen if you want.“ He offers.

“Naaah, it’s cool. I’ve heard what I need from good old MJ.“ Quicksilver replies, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly. He has no clue what Kurt’s objective is and he’s not sure he wants to find out. Not that Kurt seems like the vengeful type, the guy’s practically a saint faithful and all, but Peter had done enough to know that if this was all a prank, it would be well-deserved.

So he watches in slow-motion, for any sign of trickery or mischievous twinkle in Kurt's eyes.

All he sees is dejection.

Kurt's ears are all floppy, his smile is stiff and his tail is curled inwards. The worst of all are his eyes, all shiny and huge and directed at him.

He looks like a sad kitten.

Quicksilver doesn’t appreciate how fast his mouth is heading towards dry non-speaking territory. So he wets his lips and attempts to remedy the situation while still being able to get as far away as possible because this guy is just social awkwardness on a stick today.

“Well, if the best you’ve heard is MJ, we should really widen your horizons.“ He says, switching the cassette players before speeding off. It truly was heartbreaking to part ways with it, but the quickest way out. Well, unless he would have just switched the tapes. Only it would take no more than a second for that piece of crap that Kurt called his cassette player to turn his tape into glorified sticky tape.

After two laps around the school, (one which he had spent moonwalking through the corridors to Billie Jean), and a stop at the nearest drive through that carried milkshakes (the real ice cream and not the disgusting milk with artificial flavoring kind), Quicksilver realizes he wants his cassette player back.

He finds Kurt back in the library before the second song finishes playing.

”Soooo, what do you think?“ He asks, expecting a jump from the blue kid that’s sprawled on the ottoman before him. All he gets is curious yellow eyes as Kurt puts his book down. He seems oddly used to things suddenly appearing, probably is due to his own skill set.

“It’s … weird.“ He finally says after what seems like an eternity.

“Wow, and to think I almost liked you.“ Peter mocks and plops down beside him dramatically, one arm shielding his forehead in mock pain.

“No! I meant _good_ weird ... different, unusual? I like it.“ Kurt scrambles for an explanation, afraid he has offended his friend’s taste and that he will be left once more.

”Really.“ Peter scoffs, because no way. No way in hell that the number 1 pop fan in the academy would like his music.

“Yes.“ Kurt insists. He had found it oddly relaxing.

“You like Pink Floyd?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, ok. Cool.“ Quicksilver tries to sound as nonchalant and aloof as usual, but can’t seem to fight the twitch of his lips and ends up crossing his arms to squish down the warm feeling that currently threatens to sappify his chest.

“Cool.“ Kurt replies with a really bad thumbs up.

Peter coughs, his mouth is dry again. The dust he has been stirring up from the old books seem to be really irritating his throat.

“So, you want to listen some more or can I have that back now?”

“Oh, of course, I- It fit the book I was reading.“ Kurt explains, sheepish and unconvincing once more and reluctantly hands over the cassette player. He makes a mental note to ask for forgiveness. In truth he has not read a word of the book, instead he had gotten lost in the voices from the cassette, trying to decipher why the other liked it so much.

To Kurt’s surprise, Peter doesn’t speed off the moment his hand touches the device but does disappear from Kurt’s line of sight. Only to appear behind the armrest, clutching the book he’d been fake-reading.

“ _Brother’s Grimm’s collection of fairytales_? Isn’t that a bit predictable?”

”I … My English isn’t very good … It’s for practice…“ Kurt tries to justify the choice even though it’s starting to get fairly obvious that he had picked it at random.

“Well, it must be truly awful, _mein Freund_ , because this is definitely the original edition.“ He winks and drops the book onto the table, showcasing the spread Kurt had been fake-reading. It’s all in German.

Kurt feels his face burn purple.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jubilee stops in her tracks at the bizarre sight in front of her.

Quicksilver is lying on the end of the couch, unusually still except for his hands - one which is gesticulating wildly, the other absentmindedly batting after the tail of none other than the one she had been looking for: Kurt Wagner.

They’re deep into a discussion, but she can’t make out about what exactly. Only that it’s the most intense word-exchange she has seen from them both. They’re laughing and smiling like they’re best buds. Whatever they’re talking about, it looks like they’ve been at it for hours. Judging by their relaxed posture, they probably have.

Kurt was supposed to meet her and the others half an hour ago. The others went on ahead and she had been left searching the mansion for someone that clearly didn’t remember she existed. Seeing him like this, so engaged in someone else, without a care in the world, makes it painfully obvious that their little mall escapades aren’t as big a priority as she had hoped.

Jubilee fights the sinking feeling that’s settling in her stomach, her tongue feels dry. She’s unsure how to approach them so she just ends up staring for a while.

It isn’t until Quicksilver finally catches onto Nightcrawler’s tail, pulls and earns a smack that Jubilee feels like she has to intervene. Their laughter sounds like obnoxious nails on a chalkboard.

“Jean wasn’t kidding.”

Quicksilver’s head snaps to look at her as if she had hit him with her fireworks, betrayal, hurt and anger flashing across his features in quick succession.

Nightcrawler is looking at her with a mix of curiosity and confusion, their plans were still forgotten. She watches until realization dawns upon him. He turns back towards Quicksilver, likely to apologize or invite him to join them, like the good-natured soul he is.

But Quicksilver’s attention is focused solely on Jubilee.

”I don’t know what Jean told you, but she doesn’t know what she's talking about.“ He practically hisses at her.

He knows he’s too high strung, too defensive, too obvious, but his body’s crawling all over. The longer she looks at him with those smug eyes, the worse the itch gets. So, he makes sure to _bump_ into her shoulder on his way out.

“Wait! What about the-“ Kurt starts as the wind hits him square in the face.

Peter’s long gone.

Seeing the look on Kurt’s face, the slicked back ears, the slack downturned lips, unfocused big eyes…

_Aw, not the sad cat-face no - oh Kurt._

Jubilee realizes that she might have spoken out of turn. She hadn’t actually meant anything by it, the words had slipped out before she had time to think them through. She didn’t actually think…

She bites her lip, she had been jealous. Jealous of Kurt’s male friend. One of the only friends that he had seemed to click with, despite being at the academy for over two months already.

Not cool.

She decides to buy him as many Slurpees as he would be able to drink.

”Come on, baby blue, let’s bounce!”

 


	3. What is a forest but a multitude of trees?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quicksilver tries his best to stay suppressed and Nightcrawler just wants everyone to get along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted to name this part: If you wanna be my lover you gotta get with my friends. So there’s that. Also plot thickens. So does the word count… 10 A4’s you guys T.T
> 
> UPDATED 18-06-2016 beta read by Shikipon

Quicksilver doesn’t show up to target practice, group or individual practice or even to breakfast.

“Sick leave.“ Scott had said, but it seemed unlikely to be true, as they had spoken in the library just the day before.

Practice isn’t pretty without him.

Despite their best efforts, the past days has made them all realize just how badly they performed on their own. Not because their powers weren’t impressive, but because without a wildcard like Peter, to change up the formation, the Sentinels recognized their fighting patterns too easily. So even if they did everything right, they lost nonetheless.

After the last session, only Jean and Storm were still on their feet. But they had collapsed once the simulation had faded and in the end, all of them had to be carried out. Watching Scott cry over his inability to protect his girlfriend, when he thought he was the only one awake, was the last straw.

Something was clearly wrong, with not only Quicksilver, but the simulations themselves and Kurt is done watching his friends suffer like this. Which is why, by the third day, Kurt skips out of class and goes in search of the professor’s advice concerning the matter.

He is just about to knock when he hears a crash from inside the office and muffled voices getting louder. One of which sounds suspiciously like the hero, Mystique, as Kurt was quick to notice.

But why would the hero argue with the professor?

Kurt tries to listen in by putting his ear to the door, but the voices are gone or too low to make out actual words. Then there’s a crash, like a window or a bottle breaking, perhaps just books being thrown. It’s a thud more than a crash, but Kurt is tempted to poof in and intervene. He doesn’t get a chance to realize this particularly bad idea though, as footstep follow the noise. Instead, he ducks around the corner as fast as he can teleport, barely having a chance to hide his tail before someone storms out.

“You can’t protect them forever Charles!“ Mystique practically shouts as she slams the door.

He waits for her to leave, but the footsteps, to his distress, don’t start again. Instead, he hears shifting and soon enough he’s standing face to face with the shapeshifter herself. She’s wearing her favorite blonde form today. There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and a light smile tugs at the corners of her lips. If she really was as angry as she sounded before, nothing about her posture betrays it now.

“I almost didn’t see you there.“ She says.

“ _Fräulein Mystique_.“ He scrambles into motion and bows deeply as he speaks, desperately trying to appear charming or at least polite in the presence of his idol.

She clearly sees through his little display, but the only comment is the ghost of a smile still lingering on her face. Though the humor quickly fades from her expression as she seemingly debates what to do with him.

“Are you in need of anything?”

“No… I just. I…“ And he doesn’t continue because he doesn’t know what to say, he didn’t expect to get caught.

It would be the perfect time for intervention either divine or at the hand of his quick friend, but, of course, it doesn’t come. There’s only a very awkward, very long pause, in which Mystique gets successively more annoyed.

“Then I think it’s time to get some rest. You and the other’s got a big day tomorrow.“ She finally concludes, giving him one of her typical stay-brave-soldier pats on the shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Kurt’s not too sure they would survive yet another big day. At the same time, Mystique is their hero and mentor. He has to believe that whatever she’s doing, it’s for their good. If she’s gone as far as to argue with the professor, then he should keep faith in the bigger picture, shouldn’t he?

He turns away from the office once more and heads towards the dorms, his classes all but forgotten for the day. He’ll just have to find answers on his own.

 

* * *

 

Kurt doesn’t expect to find the answers he was looking for in none other than Scott Cyclops Summers, pounding at the door to his and Peter’s shared room. “Dude, let me in! I live here too!”

“ _Go away!_ “ Is the muffled response as the door shakes on its hinges and Scott’s pushes back a full foot.

“Come on, I _need_ underwear!”

It appears that was not the right thing to say either.

The door slams open in a matter of seconds. When it closes, what looks like the entire contents of Scott's drawers have been dumped over his head. Kurt watches as Scott plucks a pair of boxers from his face, then reaches for his glasses. Kurt decides it might be a good time to intervene before Scott got a chance to take out his anger on the offending door.

“Hello.”

“Woah, Kurt!" Scott exclaims a bit too loud for comfort as he almost jumps in surprise. People tend to do that a lot around Kurt, even when he was not teleporting. "Didn’t see you there.”

Scott lets his hand drop from the doorframe as if he had been burnt by the wood, and sheepishly brushes off the rest of the clothing.

“So, what are you up to?“ He continues as he kicks a pair of less-than-pristine boxers behind his back as if they’d go away if they remained out of sight.

“I was thinking of-“

Scott interrupts him immediately, too preoccupied with trying to escape the situation to actually care why Kurt’s there in the first place.

“Right. I was just heading to Jean’s, I’m already late…”He casts a wistful look at the closed door and scattered clothing, then sighs. He shuffles for a while, everything about him reads uncomfortable with a capital U, then he meets his eyes and smiles.

“Well… see you around?”

The lack of proper manners and niceties would have confused and offended him just two months prior. But in America, everyone brushed off everything with a smile. Something which was both infuriating and contagious.

“Good luck with your date.“ Kurt says in a way that he hopes will assure his friend that he won’t judge him for staying with his girlfriend or tell on him. Students of the same gender weren’t typically allowed to stay in the same dorm and even though Kurt had had a fairly traditional Christian upbringing and was known as a “goody two shoes”, his friends were both consenting adults, and Kurt was not a _Petze._

 “Thanks, man.”

It seems the message comes across as intended for once, accent or not, and Kurt receives his second shoulder-pat of the day before Scott disappears down the hall.

Once he’s out of sight, Kurt walks up to the door and gives a single firm knock, just to be polite. Then he imagines a room split in half: chaos, pizza, games, posters on one side and order, neatly folded clothes, books and sporting gear on the other side.

“I told you I just need some alone-time, just take a hint, will you?!”

Kurt is greeted with the sight of Quicksilver playing chess with himself, along with solitaire and an arcade game that definitely wasn’t there last time he visited. Peter stops in his tracks at the sight of his new blue friend.

”I was going to pray for you, but I see you have no need.”

Kurt can’t keep the smugness out of his voice, making Peter stop is always a feat and he is going to enjoy every last second he gets. Coincidentally, a few seconds is in fact all he gets as Peter recovers from these things rather quickly.

”Au contraire, I am very sick, dying in fact.“ He says the words solemnly. Yet he’s smiling and switching games in-between each statement.

Although his hair looks like it could use a wash and there are bags under his eyes, he doesn’t look sick per se. Exhausted beyond belief, but not sick.

”You don’t look sick. Tired, but not sick.” Kurt decides to frame his thought into actual words because unlike Jean, Peter could not read his mind.

“Well, I am. Sick of this place, sick of people sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong, sick all the way into the soul.“ He’s the very image of overdramatic as he flops down on his bed, horizontally, complete with one arm covering his eyes like an aging film diva.

“Is that why you haven't been around lately?”

Once spoken, it sounds harsher than Kurt intended. Something is clearly bothering his friend, he doesn’t want to presume, doesn’t actually think he had abandoned them for no reason at all.

Yet, Peter doesn’t say anything in defense for once. Just lies, perfectly still, barely even breathing.

Somehow Kurt doesn’t feel like celebrating this time.

Worry makes the hair on his neck stand on end. The silence between them feels foreign and unsettling. All he wants is to apologize, even if he’s not sure what went wrong in the first place, just that it did. So, he flashes onto the bed with a sigh.

The air tastes like American junk food (the kind that never rots) and ozone _, at least it’s not perfume and chemicals_. Sometimes he really missed the clear air of the Bavarian woods from his youth.

“If you really are sick, you should let me pray.”

Actually, it’s Kurt’s belief that he should be able to pray whether Peter is sick or not. But he doesn’t want to be presumptuous or rude. Although Peter doesn’t seem devoted, he did mention being Jewish in passing once and Kurt’s not about to push his beliefs onto anyone who doesn’t want them.

Peter doesn’t answer, and picks up a pillow instead, only to place it over his face.

“MMmggGhhhh”

He continues to make very unconvincing spluttering sounds as if he’s smothering himself, eventually mocking the form of an animated corpse.

“Did you die?“ Kurt uses his tail to jab at his friend’s midrib, his previous concern and compassion almost forgotten.

Peter’s upright in milliseconds, holding onto said tail.

“No.” He says, with a seriousness that almost has Kurt worried once more. That is until the seriousness cracks into a wide smile.

“Hey, Kurt, why don’t we play a little game?”

“A game?“ He questions, unsure what prompted this reaction.

“Yeees.“ Peter nods slowly drags the word out for emphasis, as he does when he thinks the rest of the world is slower than usual.

That only causes Kurt to feel out of the loop for the third time that day. Which, frankly, he’s had enough of already.

“Sure.“ He agrees, hoping this might lead to an explanation of some sort.

“Perfect! You ever heard of blackjack?”

A deck of cards appears in front of them before Kurt has a chance to answer.

 

* * *

 

“Your turn.“ Quicksilver says with a wink as he puts down his third card-book in a row.

Kurt yawns and thinks about teleporting under his covers. The light from the windows went away hours ago. He tries to count how many hours it’s been since he got here but finds he can’t really remember that either.

“Any knights?“ He asks without bothering to look at his hand.

Even though Peter had insisted he wasn’t keeping score and changed the game every 15-30 minutes, Kurt had only won four rounds so far. At this point, he had to stay to save his pride if nothing else.

“Go fish.”

And they were playing go fish.

He was losing at go fish.

“Ach!" It escaped him again. " _Mein Freund_ , is there really a need to finish this?”

“Aw, Kurtie, are you really going to give up on me now?“ Peter teases.

“Pffft, we both know I stand no chance of winning.“ Kurt replies, motioning to the five card-books in front of the other.

“Hmph, well, it’s no fun if you’re gonna be a sore loser.“ He explains matter-of-factly before dropping the cards dramatically. They go flying all over. Yet Quicksilver makes no move to clean up and instead chooses to cross his arms. He looks like one of those spoiled five-year-olds that always used to throw a fit whenever their parents didn’t win them the right prize at the ring toss. Kurt had seen more than enough of those in his life already.

“Me a _sore loser_? Maybe I let you win after I beat you on that wannabe flipden game!”

Kurt tries prodding at him with his tail, but Peter doesn’t seem phased this time, not breaking his pout for a second. Kurt can’t help but to roll his eyes at the display.

“Hmph, maybe I should pray for that bruised ego of yours?”

“Ha! Knock yourself out.“ Quicksilver replies and makes a point of leaning his forehead in Kurt’s direction.

Kurt hesitantly places his hand at his hairline. He never expected to be challenged to pray. It feels wrong somehow, like he’s being goaded into making making light of his own faith. But if he backs out now, he might miss a chance to help.

“Well? Are we doing this or not?“ There’s something vulnerable in Peter’s voice as he speaks and Kurt decides that praying can’t hurt the situation.

“ _Mein Gott, ich danke dir sehr, dass du mir einen Freund gesendet hast._ _Ich werde mein Bestes geben ihn nicht zu verletzen_.”

Quicksilver buries his face deeper into the pillows and Kurt’s hand accidentally slips into his hair instead. For a moment, his voice falters and he thinks about removing his hand, unsure if touching the back of his head would be considered a breach of trust. The only time he had experienced something similar was as a child. His foster mother used to pet him when he was ill.

It had been an intimate gesture.

But it shouldn’t be very intimate in a touchy-feely country as America, right?

With this in mind, Kurt experimentally runs his fingers over the back of Peter’s scalp, continuing to his prayer under his breath. As he had hoped, Peter doesn’t seem uncomfortable and even leans into the touch, following the palm of his hand.

So he continues.

“Cuncustodiet eum cum nequeo _Ich danke dir, Jesu Christi._ _Amen_.”

He continues patting Peter’s hair, even after he finishes praying. It’s difficult to be gentle with three clawed fingers, but he manages to weave them through the silver tresses nonetheless. It is softer than he thought it would be and warmer too. All of him seems to radiate energy, even as he rests.

“Nnngghh too warm.”

One moment, Kurt’s fingers are tucking a lost strand of hair behind Peter’s ear, the next it’s clutching one of the pillows. Peter’s face is very close and facing his, which makes him panic before he sees that Peter’s eyes are not looking at him in anger, but tightly shut. His mouth is slack and half open.

He looks at peace.

Kurt smiles at the thought.

That is until said peace is broken as Peter let’s out a rather ungraceful snore. Kurt takes it as his cue to leave and _BAMFs_ back to his own room for some well-deserved shut-eye.

 

* * *

 

“You want to eat lunch with us?“ Scott’s voice is shrill, almost falsetto and the look on his face… Well, let's just say that living through an entire morning of boring lectures was well worth it. Peter wishes he could take a picture of this moment, frame it, go back in time and then do it all over again. It makes him all jittery inside, staying at normal speed is practically torture. Though he would rather be damned than let that excitement show.

“Do you mind?“ He says nonchalantly.

“Not at all!“ Kurt is the first one to move, practically shoving Oruro off the bench to make room for Peter. Of all the X-Men he had been the first to welcome him at breakfast and in the hallway and in class and now…

_Such a precious guy, that one._

Which makes it extra painful to see him nervously rub at his arm and wince in pain. Peter’s seen the bruises. They all look like shit… He knows it’s all his fault for not being there when they had needed him. In his defense, he would never have cut training if he had honestly thought they wanted him there. But now that he knows, he won’t ever make the same mistake again.

When he doesn’t just _appear_ on the bench, Jubilee scoots to the side as well.

“You better sit down before we change our minds.“ She says and nods to the space between them.

So, he finally does. Scott gives him a weary smile, but Peter’s very aware that he’s watching his every move like he would jump up and switch their lunches - which might be a funny prank now that he thinks about it - Jean gives him a look and he shuts down that train of thought real quick.

As Jean and the rest of the gang switch their attention to their food once more, he starts on his own sandwich. He tries his best to keep a normal pace. Even though he had accidentally picked the wrong loaf this morning and ended up with the blandest sandwich in the history of man.

Soon enough, he feels eyes on him again. It’s Oruro this time. She’s giving him an equally fascinated and wary once-over. Despite her advice with his dad, he hadn’t been able to work up the courage to tell him shit. They hadn’t really spoken since, to be honest. Some part of him wonders if her advice was a test.

Or maybe I was the whole »it takes a thief to know a thief« thing? Or was that »no honor among thieves«?

Whatever the case may be, he’ll just have to prove how normal and trustworthy he could be. He goes to take another bite of his sandwich but only finds air. He had eaten it so fast he finished it without noticing.

Oruro chuckles at the sight.

“Wow, you sure don’t like wasting time, huh?“ Jubilee gives him a slight smile that says _I’m both disgusted and fascinated_.

“You can have a piece of me if you’re still hungry.“ Kurt offers.

Unwanted images pop into his mind before he has a chance to register the sandwich that’s being held in front of his face. If you could still call the mangled victim of Kurt’s a sandwich.

_Someone needs to teach the kid basic grammar and how to hold a knife ... Just ... Jesus._

Now, it’s Jean’s turn to laugh. She doubles over her bowl, fork still grasped tight in one hand, wiping away non-existent tears with the other. The other’s, who can’t see into his mind, are staring at her in shock. Well, all except Scott, who seems used to it.

Quicksilver uses the moment of distraction to steal Kurt’s picnic knife. He separates the rest of the mangled sandwich into nice claw-friendly pieces. Then nabs one of them for himself. Kurt screams bloody murder the moment time starts ticking again.

“Whaaaat?”

Peter immediately covers his ears to keep the unexpected noise out. “Jesus, dude, stop. My ears.”

Kurt just looks even more confused, his gaze flicking to the sandwich bites to Peter and back again. He’s slowly turning purple and Peter feels guilty. It wasn’t his intention to embarrass him or make him look bad.

“I–“ Peter tries to apologize, but Kurt stops him with a sigh.

”I know … I was killing it.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the X-Men got a rise from stealing the professor’s car. He would bet Jubilee and Scott could make more money, breaking locks and hotwiring things, than what he had earned in all his days of petty theft combined (more than what he had saved is probably more accurate as he had only ever stolen for private use).

Even so, Peter had a sneaking suspicion that the professor only put the security systems on there in some roundabout way of teaching them said skills. He had never once heard talk or seen him make use of the car. Also, not to be a dick, but wasn’t the guy paralyzed below the waist?

It’s not like he would be able to push the pedals anytime soon.

Once the engine’s running Quicksilver realizes one crucial flaw with this plan. This car, although totally rad, only has four seats.

“Guess it’s time to hit the road, see you guys there?”

“You’re not riding the car?“ Kurt asks as he climbs in the backseat. Jubilee surprises them all by not only following Kurt, but placing herself onto his lap.

“Come on, if there is a will there’s a way.“ She smiles and pats the space next to her.

“I don’t think-“

But Peter doesn’t get a chance to protest, as Oruro shoves him into said space.

After some shuffling and playing Tetris, mutant clown-car edition, she finally settles somewhere half in his lap, half pressed up against the door of the car.

“Let’s go.“ She demands.

“Wait, is everyone strapped in?“ Scott calls from the driver’s seat.

“No.“ Peter replies, because how the hell would they be? Jean flashes them an amused smile from the passenger seat.

“Close enough.“ Scott decides and they’re off.

 

* * *

 

Peter almost jumps out of his skin when Kurt re-materializes in the line beside him.

“I’m here to remind you to get the pixie sticks.”

“Really? That’s how little you trust me. It’s candy, I take my sweet tooth very seriously, you know?”

“Jean, said you could say that and told me to quote: _Remind him of that time with the Twinkies and the ho ho–_ “

Peter intends to grab his wrist, he really does. It’s just that the sight of Kurt counting up his candy-related misdeeds with only three fingers … It makes him want to stop every individual finger. Maybe even twist them into a peace sign.

Peter honestly isn’t sure how he settles on linking their hands together instead.

He expects it to be a weird feeling. That maybe Kurt’s skin will be cold like a reptile’s or be warm like an amphibian’s, possibly even sweaty like the average teenage boy’s. He doesn’t expect his hands to tingle and sparks to shoot all the way down into his elbow.

Needless to say, Peter drops the offending hand the second it’s over, but one quick glance into Kurt’s eyes tells him that he’s been compromised, that he’s not the only one that felt that.

The realization makes something flare up in the pit of his stomach. Something he had thought had died with the rest of his dreams once he had dropped out of high school. He’s not sure what he wants to do about it. If he can do anything if he should do anything.

”Welcome to Cineplex what can I do for you?“ The overly polite voice of someone who works too many hours on minimum wage calls. Peter’s experiences what it’s like being relieved and angry simultaneously for the first time. It’s not a nice feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out, invasion of the arachnoids, really was as bad as the title suggested. The acting was over-dramatic and boring and the spiders had yet to make an appearance, even though the main protagonists had died and been replaced halfway through.

The new main protagonist, the local sheriff and the arachnoid-obsessed geek with an obvious crush on said girl (gee wonder who the bad guy is), where currently walking through a dimly lit hallway. Before long, the trademark scuttling noises and screams could be heard.

Finally some action.

Only the action turned out to suck. The payoff was the worst spider dummy in existence, complete with fuzz and visible wires. Peter is honestly baffled that no one has walked out and demanded their money back yet. Once the puppet starts _attacking_ the sheriff’s face, Peter’s eyes shift focus, roaming around the room for something, anything, better to pay attention to.

They land on the blue guy beside him, specifically his three-fingered hand. Peter remembers the sparks from earlier and his gut flares again. The memory feels distant already, like a daydream or fantasy. He’s pretty sure he must have imagined the whole thing. He decides to test it again by just brushing their hands together. There’s no spark this time, but it’s warm and oddly satisfying.

Kurt’s head snaps away from the screen to look at him. He tilts his head in confusion. _What? There totally was a spider between your fingers!_ He could say. _Wanna move to the back and do what all the other hormonal teens do?_ He wants to say. _Oops, that’s not the snack box, is it?_ He should say.

But what comes out when he opens his mouth is just air.

”It’s ok to be scared.” Kurt gives him an encouraging smile and squeezes his hand as if he was some scared little kid. His cheeks burn with shame at the thought.

Yet, Peter can’t help but to flash him a smile in return.

“Heh, guess you caught me, spiders are the worst.”

He uses the excuse to hold on to Kurt’s hand like said scared little kid for the rest of the movie.

 

 


	4. Chop, chop, timber!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday fature that was supposed to be about christmas but ended up being about thanksgiving for plot purposes. Merry x-mas everyone!
> 
> UPDATED 18-06-2016 beta read by Shikipon

 

 Time passes quickly, well for most people anyway. Quicksilver sees it as a very slow and drawn out blur. It could have been a high-resolution slow-motion-montage, except he rarely has the attention span to focus on the bigger picture. He prefers to zoom in on details here and there, for example on the colors of the leaves on his morning jog, most were still green but some were orange and a few had even turned brown. Peter had picked up several leaves mid-fall, only to stuff them in the open suitcase Scott had left on his bed this morning.

Speaking of suitcases, the Institute was currently filled with the noise of the teachers trying to get a hundred kids to pack neatly. Judging by the scorch-marks decking the staircase, he would say it wasn’t going too well. Generally, chaos was just up his alley, especially when it involved flustered authority figures. Screaming kids, however? Not so much.

So, after a quick pit-stop to the kitchen for some bacon and eggs, he had taken refuge in the library. Spending time there was becoming a habit of his. Peter blamed a certain blue elf-wannabe and said elf wannabe's incessant need to be a goody-two-shoes saint.

Well, at least he was most of the time. Last week’s study session had ended in Kurt hitting him square in the face with an encyclopedia. It turned out that history gets interesting after spending half an hour trying to get someone’s attention, but not nearly interesting enough to not result in a good-natured book war once he had sped through the assigned chapters.

As if on cue, he turns a corner and sees the blue devil in question, perched half sitting half crouching on a chair, his face stuffed in some book as per usual. Peter greets him with a casual “Sup?” as he plops down on the empty chair beside Kurt.

“Peter!" Kurt exclaimed. "What are you– don’t you have to pack?”

“Nah, I’m just gonna pop back in for the day. I live pretty close, or well I used to. I think my mom is too glad to have me out of the basement to let me stay the night ever again.“ He jokes.

But Kurt doesn’t quip back or give him a smile or even one of those confused looks that tell him he’s gotten ahead of himself. His yellow eyes are glassy and unfocused, not like he has been crying, but like he has shut down so he doesn’t have to. Peter knows the look very well. He has seen it in the mirror one too many times back when his stepfather was still around. He tries changing the subject, not really wanting to deal with whatever could have caused his friend’s dejected state just yet.

“What about you, you going anywhere?” He asks, desperately trying to find a topic that doesn’t involve reliving his past _feelings_.

“No, not really.“ Kurt is smiling now, but it’s far from natural and his eyes are still not _there._

It gets on Peter's nerves, talking to Kurt was supposed to be easy ( which is why it was the perfect distraction whenever he was bored enough to do something extraordinarily stupid). Sure, Peter might not be the best listener and sometimes Kurt’s accent complicated things, but an attempt at conversation had never been shut down so easily before.

“No plans, no nothing?“ He pries, feeling his foot vibrate with a sudden onslaught of restlessness.

“Well, maybe I’ll read?“ Kurt gestures to the shelves around him and clears his throat awkwardly. “We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in Germany, so…”

And finally, a lightbulb goes off in Peter’s head. The sudden onslaught of thoughts that come with it goes a little something like this:

  1. Kurt is from Germany, but he is an orphan raised by a traveling circus.
  2. Orphans don’t get to go back to their family over the holidays and judging by the lack of contact Kurt has had with anyone outside the Institute, the circus doesn't seem to be an option anymore.
  3. Having their ears talked off about family holidays is infinitely worse when you don't have one, than when you just have a bad track record with yours.



It makes Peter feel like utter shit– If this would be a video game he would be in dire need of another coin, he can practically see the end screen and the stats flashing in his mind. 0 points for sensibility for sure.

Why couldn’t he just have slowed down to think BEFORE speaking for once?

After all, he as supposed to be his friend and friends don’t stir up trauma by acting like inconsiderate assholes.

“Right.“ Is all he manages, because what do you say when you fuck up that bad?

He racks his brain as quickly as is possible, there has to be something he can do to salvage the situation.

“Waaaait– back it up, so you’ve never had a Thanksgiving meal? Like no gravy, no stuffing, no disgusting cranberry dessert?”

“No?“ Kurt seems confused by the question.

“You poor deprived soul. That just won’t do, will it?“ Peter makes sure to pause and tap his chin for effect, which manages to draw a small smile from the other. Peter then makes a point out of waggling his eyebrows, which makes said smile turn into full blown laughter. That is until Kurt remembers, a bit too late, that they’re in the library. This results in a very unattractive snort-like cough and some face scratches as he clasps his hands over his mouth to keep any further noise from escaping.

“Ahm ... I have survived this far, no need to worry.“ Kurt finally manages, making sure to roll his eyes at his friend’s antics for good measure.

“No, no, Kurt. I’m trying to make a case here. You _need_ to try my mother’s awful cranberry pie.”

Peter holds his breath and counts the seconds as he watches the gears in Kurt’s head turn.

Three,

two,

one.

" _What?_ " Kurt practically topples over. “But your family … won't they mind a stranger in their home?”

Yellow eyes scan his for any sign of mischief, it’s both endearing and sad, but certainly not unjustified.

“Psh, you’re no stranger. You’re my best friend.“ He is surprised by the fact just how earnest he sounds like it is just fact. When Peter thinks about it, it _is_ fact. Kurt is the best friend he has ever had, not that it’s much of a competition, but still.

Still.

“Oh.“ The statement seems to have surprised Kurt as well, but his expression soon melts into the widest smile Peter’s seen. It’s like one of those teeth-whitening commercials, except with terrifyingly sharp fangs.

“Ok then. As they say, I couldn’t leave _meinen besten Freund_ hanging, could I?”

The way he says it awkward bordering on downright goofy. So much so, that had he said it two months’ prior, Peter would have visibly cringed. Back then, he never could have imagined a scenario in which he would feel his heart swell or his face light up like a fire truck at the words, but here we are.

Peter clenches and unclenches his fists, desperately trying to resist drawing the guy into a hug. He doesn’t do hugs, at least not unless the person is a) dying or b) related to him. So, he settles on awkwardly grasping at Kurt’s shoulder, the way his stepdad used to in those rare moments when he had been satisfied with him.

“Ye-yeah .... Don’t… “He coughs to get rid of the stuttering. “Don’t worry about it!“ He finally squeaks out, like he hadn’t ditched puberty about four years ago.

“Besides, it won’t be the first curveball I’ve thrown their way on Thanksgiving. I mean, at least there’s no cops involved this time.“ He adds, effectively sweeping away any residue feelings that might've lingered otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Come Wednesday night, Kurt had taken one look at the mishmash of hand-me-downs in his dresser and panicked. He didn’t own anything even close to the knitted sweaters and button-up shirts that he had seen people sport in the commercials. In fact, he didn’t really own anything even close to formalwear. The closest thing he had to a suit was his old circus outfit and something told him this wasn’t the quite the occasion for that kind of _formal_.

In the end, he had settled for his regular brown pants, a black shirt, and the trench coat that Mystique had stolen for him back in Germany. His Michael Jackson jacket was subject to relentless teasing from Peter, so it seemed to be the safest choice just in case Peter’s family disliked brightly colored clothes as well.

 

* * *

 

The school is practically empty when Peter meets Kurt in the hallway, he’s late, not by much, a mere five minutes, but taken his gift into account, it almost seems to be on purpose. He does that a lot, as Kurt has noticed.

Peter is wearing his signature silver jacket, band tee, and jeans. So, naturally, Kurt wonders if he has misunderstood the supposed dress code or if it’s just a testament to his friends need to _not care_ about most things. Not that Kurt hasn’t seen him fix his hair more than enough times to know that he very much cares about how other people see him and that anything he says to the contrary is just to seem cool.

“Ready to go?“ He asks, giving him an uncharacteristically nervous smile.

“I’m ready.“ Kurt confirms.

Something is off about the way Peter grips him this time. First of all, usually he does not feel the touch until he has arrived somewhere else with the Quicksilver transport. Second of all, it was the first time that he actually has the time to register that he wants to throw up before reaching their destination.

They stop in a suburbia of some sort, across the street from a grey-looking house with odd angles in wood and stone. Kurt wants to take a closer look but finds himself preoccupied with trying to hold back his breakfast. His pride won’t let him throw up, not after letting himself be convinced that it was the best option and that, yes, he could handle it and, no, he definitely wouldn't throw up on the other's shoes.

You won’t know where you’re going, he said. It’s really close, he said. It’ll be fine, he said.

“You okay?“ Real life Peter asks as if he honestly didn’t know this would happen.

“Ja, I’m fine. I've been through worse.“ Kurt lies, just in case he actually didn’t.

“Okay, well, just to warn you: My family is uh … never mind, you’ll see.”

Kurt doesn’t reply and instead covers his face, inhales and does his best to regain any semblance of direction. Just as he feels the world slow to a halt once more, he feels a hand on his neck.

Next thing he knows; they’re standing in a very messy kitchen. The nausea is a lot easier to handle this time. There are dirty dishes, pots, pans and knives everywhere except the sink. Pastry, vegetables in various states of preparation, along with what looks like a plucked bird carcass, are strewn about the room. He even spots a stray carrot on the stove, which is a questionable choice since it seems to run on gas judging by the blue flame that’s dangerously close to lighting said carrot on fire.

“So, that’s where you went.“ A woman mutters as she pulls the carrot away just in time.

Peter coughs somewhere beside him.

“I’m home!”

The woman turns around, she looks like she’s in her late 30’s possibly early 40’s. Her brown hair is curled and pulled back from her face in a scrunchie. Said face is practically blemish-free, but lined in a way that suggests immense stress, minor substance abuse or a life well lived. Kurt hopes for the latter.

“Peter! I just got a new doormat!“ She scolds, jabbing a rust-covered peeler in their general direction.

“Really? I don’t even get a » _Welcome home_ « or an » _I missed you_ «?”

“You might’ve gotten one if you called before like I asked.“ She tuts and crosses her arms eerily similar to the way Kurt has seen Peter do. He notices she has the same tired brown eyes, complete to the mischievous twinkle. Maybe an aunt? Or mother?

“First it’s » _You need to get out of the house more, Peter_ «, then it’s » _Why do you never call, Peter?_ «. All these mixed signals are giving me whiplash.”

The woman’s mouth twitches then twist into a smile. She puts down the peeler, choosing to open her arms wide instead.

“Ah, ah, ah! I’m your mother, it’s my job to keep you on your toes.”

Kurt's eyes are forced shut as Peter speeds past. When he opens them Peter’s arms wrapped around her waist. The woman, Peter’s mother, is laughing at his antics.

The scene makes something ache under the left side of Kurt’s ribs and he wonders if his adopted sister misses him. He wonders if she and _Mutter_ got angry once they realized that he was gone. Had they even tried to look for him once?

Something moves in his peripheral vision.

The movement is enough to break him out of his thoughts, but not to startle him. It’s a young girl, 15 at most. Who, despite his demonic looks, only pays him a glance before casually leaning on the doorframe beside him.

“Gross.“ She comments drily, but a smile lingers in the corner of her lips.

Peter has lifted her up by the waist in two seconds flat.

“How’s my favorite baby sister?“ He calls as he spins them around.

“First, I’m not a baby-“

“Really? Then why do you still–“ She kicks him in the shin until he lets her down again.

“Secondly, who’s the hot blue guy?“ She interrupts him to nod in Kurt’s direction.

Peter’s face switches between stunned to sheepish, then back to his trademark sly smile in a matter of seconds.

“This young man right here, is my dear friend, Kurt Wagner.“ He appears behind Kurt as he speaks, squeezing his shoulders to keep him from jumping or teleporting at the sudden appearance.

“Hello.“ Kurt holds up one hand in greeting, trying his best to appear friendly.

“Friend? Pffft, no really, who is he?“ Peter’s sister quips, seemingly unfazed about having been put down in super speed. Kurt practically feels Peter make faces at her over his shoulder.

Mrs. Maximoff gives her children a look that makes them both grow silent and stand a little straighter, as she strides over. She turns her focus to Kurt mid-stride and her scowl turns into a fullblown smile. Kurt thinks that even though this woman has evidentially been through a lot, she’s still beautiful when she smiles.

“Welcome, Kurt. I’m glad you could make it.“ She says and envelops him in a hug.

Kurt freezes at the contact, skin crawling with the feel of a stranger invading his personal space. Despite having lived in America for the past four months now he still hasn’t interacted with a lot of people outside his fellow X-Men and when strangers got this close in his past … Well, it usually wasn’t with friendly intent.

“Fra – Mrs. Maximoff, thank you for having me. I hope that I am not intruding, am I?“ He stutters nervously, wishing he had stayed home instead. Mrs. Maximoff seems to notice his unease and steps back.

“Any friend of Peter’s is welcome here and it’s Miss, actually.“ Kurt opens his mouth to apologize but she continues on, unperturbed by his panicked expression. “But why don’t you call me Magda? I’m not much for titles.”

“And I’m Wanda.”

“The annoying little sister.“ Peter adds with a typical immature snicker.

“Hey!”

An alarm rings through the kitchen, cutting their introductions short.

“That’d be the potatoes. Why don’t you kids set the table?“ Ms. Maximoff – Magda – asks.

Both Peter and his sister gives the equally unenthusiastic replies of a “Yes, Sir.“ and a “Yeah, yeah.“ respectively.

“Of course.“ Kurt replies with a bow of the neck because unlike his American friends, he has been raised to respect his elders and do as he was told without complaining.

 

* * *

 

The living room was a room over and much smaller in size, but there was everything from an old vanity, to an out of place looking picnic table crammed in within its walls. It was, if possible, even messier than the kitchen.

But out of all the mess, the first thing that catches Kurt's eye is the tiny coffee table by the beaten up old couch. It was an impressive sight the way it’s impressive to see five clowns emerge from one car or to see someone stack a card house the height of their car.

Said tiny table held all of two full ashtrays, an old box, one deck of playing cards, a pile of old magazines, two half-eaten bags of chips, an empty bowl, a pair of keys, three empty soda cans and five beer bottles, one of which had spilled it contents onto the carpet.

Said carpet was an ugly orange and brown color, with cigarette burns strewn around like a galaxy. The wall behind the couch had yellowed stains along the rims to match. Everything looked like it had been untouched since the 70’s, save for the consumables and the entertainment system, which was one of the newer models with stereo and color.

“You have a beautiful home!“ Is still the first thing that comes out of Kurt’s mouth because it _is_ the most beautiful home he has ever seen. It just also happens to be the only home he has ever physically been in, save for the Institute. The way the Maximoff siblings laugh in unison at his words, makes him think that maybe he ought to visit more.

“So what brings someone as polite as you to a place like this?“ Wanda smiles and gestures for him to come sit down on the couch with her. Once seated she opens the old box to reveal enough silverware for at least seven people.

Kurt opens his mouth to answer but Peter beats him to it.

“Kurt here is from _Deutschland_ , it’s a lesson in American culture.“ He says as he plops down next to them. All the junk has disappeared from the table, only to be replaced with polishing rags and a faded heap of fabric that looks suspiciously like an old tablecloth.

“I've heard wonderful things about the turkey.“ Kurt adds as he picks one of them up and starts with the knives.

“Aw, that’s totally adorable.“ Wanda comments as she goes for the forks.

Kurt notes that Peter has disappeared out of sight again.

“I’m sorry?“ He asks, not following the conversation.

“You don’t know what the word _adorable_ means?“ Wanda looks at him like she’s won a prize.

“That's not what I meant, _aber doch_ , I know the word.“

Now that he thought about it, Peter had called Scott adorable after he slipped in a puddle trying to catch a wind-caught umbrella, but Jubilee had used it to describe the baby ducks they had seen in the pond. Kurt failed to see the similarity, so maybe he didn’t quite know it after all.

“I think?“ He adds as an afterthought.

“Aw, can I keep him?“ Wanda gives Peter (who seems to have re-appeared by the picnic table, holding the green tablecloth and plastic centerpiece) what Jubilee refers to as _puppy eyes._

“Get your own friends, this one’s mine.“ The words are harsh, clearly meant to be the end of the discussion as he doesn’t even look up before he disappears again. The words seem to have the opposite effect as Wanda’s drops the utensils in favor of giving Kurt a look.

“Are you like…?“ She makes hand gestures at him that could only be called _obscene_ , mischief making its way back onto her face with a slight smile.

Kurt feels his face burn and he wonders what exactly he has done to end up here. Also that this would be the perfect time for one of Peter’s _rescues_ if he would only stay still long enough.

As if he had read his mind, Peter reappears with plates in hand.

“Gross! No. Whoever taught you that is getting a beating, by the way.“ He says re-appearing on different sides of the picnic table with each statement.

“You did! When you were, like, ten!“ Wanda follows him as he continues to zip around without missing a beat. "I call dibs!“ She says and shifts her eyes to glance at Kurt. Something about her face changes and, for a moment, Kurt’s transported back to Germany and a particularly hungry stray cat that almost took off his tail as he had tried to release one of the mice he had snuck out one of the snake tanks.

He swallows and tries to put some distance between them, considering if it would be rude to teleport somewhere else.

“Don’t you have homework to do?“ Peter is standing in front of them now, arms crossed and foot tapping.

“It’s vacation. I’m not a slacker like you were, I hand shit in on time so I can relax.“ Wanda spreads out her arms behind the couch and plops her feet down on the coffee table, mimicking the very image of sloth.

Peter looks beyond annoyed and Kurt feels the need to defend his friend.

“Actually, Peter is a really good student.”

“Wait, what? No way!“ Wanda looks at him like he’s grown another head, clearly not being able to fit the image of her brother to that of a straight-A-student.

Thing is, Kurt is convinced that the only reason Peter doesn’t get straight A’s is that he doesn’t show up half the time, even though his attendance had been on the rise this past month. If nothing else, their study sessions proved that he already knew the answers, as he keeps yelling them to him, if Kurt doesn’t pay him enough attention. Not to mention the fact that he had aced every single test he’d bothered showing up to.

“ _Doch!_ He helped me study English and history all of the last week!“ Kurt exclaims triumphantly.

Wanda pulls back her arms into their previous crossed state and gives him another look.

“On the topic of studying. Kurt, German is your first language, right?”

“Ja?”

Wanda closes all the distance he had put between them.

“Well, I have a C in German I need to raise by next term, maybe you and I could study sometime-“

Peter reappears between them this time.

“Ok, mala siostra, that’s enough.”

“What? I called dibs. Besides he is way closer to my age than yours. “

Kurt tries to focus on polishing, not wanting to get caught in the sibling rivalry. He wonders as so many times before, how old his friend actually is. Peter has often made light of _dropping out_ and _scraping together a degree_. So, Kurt knew there had to be some sort of gap. He had figured there was a year or two between them at most. But Wanda looked like she was 15 at most and Kurt himself would turn 18 this winter. So if he’s supposed to be closer to her in age, it would mean that Peter would be at least three years his senior. And that just couldn’t be the case, could it?

His disbelief must have shown on his face because Wanda speaks up once more.

“He didn’t tell you? He’s basically 25.“ She gives Peter a nasty stare as she speaks.

“ _What?_ ” Kurt drops the knife he’s been working on and Peter almost tips the coffee table and all the silverware with it.

“22! I’m 22!“ He splutters as he tries his best to put everything back into place, but Wanda is still staring him down.

Peter sighs.

“Just not physically. My body ages quicker because of my powers. The more I use them, the quicker my time runs out.”

Wanda doesn’t laugh at the play-of-words. In fact, she doesn’t even give a smile. The sudden shift in mood tells Kurt that this must be a recurring argument between the two.

“Which is why he makes sure to waste them on every little stupid dumb thing.“ She says, her mouth pressed into a such a thin line that her words come out sounding more like a hiss than actual words.

“Oh, go to your room.”

“You gonna make me?”

For a moment, Kurt thinks he sees her eyes flash bright red. Just as he thinks he imagined it, the table collapses and the plates crash to the ground, or well, they almost do.

Peter catches them.

Wanda stands and cracks her neck and fingers. Her eyes glow bright and clear this time as she raises a hand. Red coils of energy, brighter than Scott’s, but darker than Jubilee’s, winds around her fingertips.

Quicksilver smirks and cocks a brow at her. Kurt knows that look, it’s the one he gave the Sentinels that day when they ended up all tangled.

Whatever happens next, he knows it’s not going to be good.

“PIETRO AND WANDA MAXIMOFF!”

Ms. Maximoff is standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip and an overfull jug in the other.

“Mom!“ Peter squeaks and stands up straight once again, rubbing his palms together nervously. He’s never seen Peter look quite that pale. It makes him wonder if Magda has some sort of strange power of her own, that maybe she’s a telepath like Jean or the Professor.

“No powers indoors!“ She chides as she strides towards him, putting the gravy down onto the table.

Peter reappears next to Kurt, muttering under his breath. He’s trying his best to look unaffected, but his left leg is vibrating so fast that it’s barely even there. Wanda plops down on his other side, arms and legs crossed.

“Now. I’m going to go get the turkey and mash, when I come back, you will have made up!”

Magda gives Kurt an apologetic look before she disappears into the kitchen once more.

“Well…“ Peter tries but trails off like he doesn’t know how to continue.

“I’m sorry that my brother is such a dickhead. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Kurt.”

Wanda gives Kurt a salute and disappears up the staircase, flipping her brother the bird in the process.

“Your sister… She’s a mutant?“ Kurt asks once she’s out of earshot.

“And?”

There are so many more questions he wants to ask, like why she’s hiding here and not attending the Institute. But brown eyes beg him not to push it, so he ends up changing topic entirely. Maybe he’ll ask Wanda herself someday.

“So … _Pietro_?”

“Oh god, no! No, no, no! You do not get to call me that. No one gets to call me that. This … That stays between us!”

“Whatever you say … Pietro.”

Quicksilver squints his eyes and opens his mouth to protest, but gets cut off by a crash from upstairs, followed by a loud:

“Peter, dad’s in the news again!”

The TV flickers to life, Peter has got a remote in his hand that wasn’t there a second ago.

“… when the dangerous mutant known as Magneto attacked an ambulance and broke into a medical delivery truck headed for St. Vincent’s hospital. Eyewitnesses claim he was assisted by the infamous terrorist, Azazel, who had been previously thought to be deceased prior to the event.”

Low-resolution footage plays as the broadcaster speaks, no doubt caught by a nearby security camera. It shows as Magneto, the metal-bending mutant who helped rebuild the school, lifts up the truck. But Kurt’s eyes are drawn to the blurry, red-skinned mutant in the back. The one with a tail so much like his own. He watches as the man teleports on screen and he wonders if the man, Azazel, could be – then the red mutant goes on to slit the driver’s throat– and Kurt decides he would rather not know.

The broadcast moves on with the promise of more updates but the damage has been done.

“You’re going after him, right?“ Wanda startles them both as she flies down the stairs. “Tell mom we’re sorry and that we'll take a rain check.”

Wanda reaches out to Peter and grasps his hand between her own.

“Be safe and come back to me.”

It’s not a request, but an order.

When Peter nods in agreement, she grabs Kurt’s hand as well, linking it with her brother’s, holding them together between her own.

“Both of you.“ She adds and brandishes a smile extremely similar to Peter’s widest beams if only more curled at the ends. It’s so warm and inviting that Kurt can’t help but nod in agreement and he thinks, that maybe, in an alternate universe, it would have been easy to fall for someone like her.

Then Wanda let’s go and Kurt snaps back into reality.

“Beam us up, Kurtie!“ Peter says smugly, with a last wink to his sister.

Wanda is about to ask what exactly that’s supposed to mean, but all that is left of them is a wisp of smoke and the lingering smell of sulfur.

 

* * *

 

When they appear, ungracefully in a heap in the middle of the flight deck, the rest of the team has already boarded the jet. There’s no time for respite and they get into the suits in record time (Well, at least in Kurt’s case, Peter’s never exactly slow to change).

“Where the hell have you been?“ Jean’s voice calls as they hurry up the hatch.

“Hurry up!“ Oruro joins in as she beckons for them to get closer with her arms.

“Right on time, boys. We almost left without you.“ Hank chides as they get strapped in for take-off.

Once they do, the mood changes from anxious to a kind of tense silence. It reminds him of the flight to Egypt, except shorter and not as hopeless. Magneto was powerful beyond belief, but he was no god. Not to mention they had been training for this. Kicking-ass should be easy if only they knew what to expect.

The minutes pass in stretched out silence, but they don’t get a plan or even debrief. Not even a location. After just ten of said minutes, Quicksilver considers ripping up the hatch, jumping ship and walking. It’s just too boring to wait around like this.

He blames it on the fact that Mystique isn’t with them. He may not enjoy her pep-talks or depressing war stories much himself, but at least there’s something happening when she’s around. Though, knowing the professor, she’s probably doing something super important to their survival, but still.

Still.

Peter tugs at his harness impatiently, just itching to say something, only to have Kurt’s tail slap his hands. He gives him a look that says that now is not the time. Peter doesn’t appreciate the sentiment and opens his mouth to lay down some sass, but Scott beats him to it.

“So, what exactly is the mission, Hank? Do we even have a plan?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, making things up as I go is kind of my specialty.“ A very familiar _female_ voice answers.

Hank shifts to look at them but none other than Mystique has taken his place. Before anyone has a chance to ask further questions, the light in the jet turns green and there’s this terrible noise.

“I am so sorry about this kids.”

Panic speeds up Quicksilver’s perception, but he finds his body just won’t move like it should. He can’t speed up or break the harness. Instead, he watches, in slow-motion, as a live current winds its way up the seats.

Somewhere far away he hears himself scream and everything goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clear on the age gaps: I know that Wanda and Peter are twins in the comics, but the girl shown CANONICALLY in days of future past is about 8. I know there’s supposed to be a deleted scene floating around somewhere where the girl refers to another sister, but I honestly haven’t been able to find it, so I couldn’t verify if that was actually the case or if the gifs I’ve seen where just fan-made wish-fulfillment. That’s why I decided to go with the little girl being Wanda in this universe. I imagine Apocalypse took place about 7 years after DOFP: which makes Wanda 15, Peter 22 and Kurt 17 going on 18. 
> 
> Also Wanda and Kurt DO get married in an alternative universe from the multiverse, they have a daughter named Talia, also known as Nocturne... #themoreyouknow


	5. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that tries so hard to be canon. Oh god does it try, it tries so hard all the time, in this institution–yeah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this was only supposed to be 5 chapters and guys I tried so hard to finish it all. Thing is I'm really busy with finals right now and I feel really bad about not posting. Fact is that I gotta put school first for a while. Yet I ca't just leave y'all hanging. Also the pacing was off. So it needed a clear divide. I hope you all enjoy it anyway :)
> 
> UPDATED 21-06-2017 beta-read by Shikipon.

The first Kurt notices when he wakes up is white light.

The second is a splitting headache.

He doesn’t know if it’s caused by said loud white light or whatever Mystique hit them with.

The traitor.

He can’t believe he ever trusted her, looked up to her.

Kurt is so mad he can barely contain himself. Luckily for him, something else seems to do it for him. He is in restraints of some sort, that much is certain. He blinks through the pain and light until the blur around him starts to take shape and finds that he’s suspended off the ground.

Much like Jesus on the cross, he muses.

Only, his arms seem to be stretched upwards, not out.

A glance upward to said arms makes his stomach drop. There’s swirling coils of light where his hands should be. Panic jolts his system into action and he tries to pull on the restrains. They don’t give but he feels his fingers flex, but the relief is short-lived when the wiggling jostles him off-balance and makes him acutely aware that his feet are secured in a pair of identical coils.

Kurt closes his eyes and breathes for a moment.

_If I just stay calm, maybe I can teleport?_

The thought didn’t seem very realistic given how similar the glow of the shackles were to the light Mystique had hit them with.  The fact that Kurt had no idea where he was geographically didn’t exactly help either, but Kurt has always been a bit of an optimist. Besides staying strung up isn’t really an option.

Two full minutes pass and nothing.

No tilting of the world.

No rip in space-time.

No loud noise.

Kurt let his head roll back in defeat.

Dread finds its way back into his abdomen and the pounding in his head returns full force. He tries to focus on breathing and counting sounds, the way the professor told him to when the world seemed too hostile, too different or just too _foreign_. But the exercise was designed to help him cope with sensory overload, like being prodded at by strangers at the mall or trying to focus in a rowdy class.

But as the only thing he can count at the moment is the light hum of machinery and his own breathing, he finds that his panic only gets louder and louder, like his mind is going to overflow from all the thoughts.

_Where is everyone? Are they safe? How could this happen?! I have to get out, I have to find them, I have to get out, I have to get out! I trusted you!_

In his mind he sees Hank's form phase into Mystique's true form, then into the face of the hero who saved him from a life of fighting, like she had saved so many before him.

He feels himself getting wound up once more.

_How? She’s supposed to be on our side! She's supposed to be on the good side!_

He lets out a low hiss like noise, and revels in how it bounces off the walls and fills up the silence. But the anger fades just as quickly as it came. The frustration from earlier takes its place instead.

_How do I forgive something like that?_

His tail whips in agitation as he considers his options. He has almost resorted to putting his fate in the lord’s hands, but as prayer is about to roll off his tongue, he realizes something else.

_Wait … my tail is free?_

The realization makes him almost giddy. Maybe, just maybe, if he could just find a lock or a weak spot, he could jam the cuffs open. But before he gets the chance to put the idea into motion, a panel flickers and slides open, only to reveal a blue silhouette.

Kurt doesn’t bother with guessing and cuts straight to demanding answers.

“Tell me this is not true. Tell me that you are not with the terrorists!“ He yells.

“Kurt. You have to let me explain.“ She starts, mouth set in a thin line, speaking with the authority he used to admire. It’s incredible how fast opinions change. What he once viewed as confidence now sounds demanding and weary. She sounds like a parent lecturing an ignorant child.

“So it is true? You betrayed us?“ It’s one thing to imagine being betrayed and another to have it confirmed. He thought he would be angry again, but all he feels is a kind of empty hollowness.

Mystique doesn’t answer this time.

“How could you? You were our hero! _My_ hero!“ He pulls the restraints in frustration once more.

“There are lot of things you do not yet understand.“ Mystique’s face is nigh unreadable, but a single tear makes it way down her face. She doesn’t seem to notice at first, but her eyes widen as it rolls down her cheek, almost like she’s surprised. For a moment, she seems vulnerable, like she might regret doing all of this. It makes Kurt inclined to listen, but she doesn’t continue.

The panel slides away once more.

It’s the red devil from the TV. The tip of his tail slowly lolling from side to side as he waltzes through the doorway, like he’s excited, happy even. Something in Kurt’s chest aches at how familiar the gesture is before he remembers that this man – Azazel – killed innocent people wearing that same expression. He bares his fangs at the mere thought.

_Just because you look like the devil, doesn’t mean you have to do his work._

“Ah, the lost one is awake.“ Azazel’s voice bounces off the walls of the enclosure and register somewhere between smooth baritone and a purr.

“Azazel, you _will_ stay out of this!“ Mystique’s voice is stark in contrast. It’s shrill, panicky even.

Kurt’s never seen nor heard her expresses any emotion like _that_.

Every expression he’s seen on her has been calculated, even the friendly smiles he’d get in between classes. Not even in the heat of battle or in the danger room has she been anything but the a well-trained solider, only ever using the slightest anger to intimidate a foe.

Seeing that mask practically crumble was unsettling to say the least.

 “Or what? Hm?“ Azazel teleports next to her, invading her personal space by running his tail across her cheek. Mystique slaps it away and turns her back to Kurt, almost as if to shield him, in one fluid motion.

Azazel scoffs at the gesture and crosses his arms.

“He’s my son too, y’know.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Peter registers is his own heartbeat, as it’s pounding, very loudly, in his ears.

The second is the worst headache he’s ever had, that one time in Vegas notwithstanding.

The third is the pained grunting of his team-mates.

“Everyone alright?“ Scott rasps from somewhere to his far right.

“Yeah.“ Jean replies somewhere even closer.

“Alive.“ Oruro speaks up to his left.

“Just peachy.“ Peter’s mouth struggles to form the words, his tongue feels like sandpaper.

 _Badump-badump-thump_.

Slowly, but surely Peter pries his eyes open, only to be assaulted by how bright it is. He can’t make out much, just silhouettes with splotches of color he assumes is hair. There’s a red and brown splotch to his right, and then a white one to his left. It holds up to the answers, nothing strange or out of the–

Wait.

No blue?

_Badump–badump badump thumb ba–_

He blinks a few times trying to get the colors into shapes as if maybe he has made a mistake and the one person missing isn’t who he thinks it is.

“Where’s Nightcrawler?“ He hears Oruro ask.

Instinctively, he tries moving to a better vantage point but finds himself restrained.

_–badump-badump-thump-badump-badump-thump-_

He coughs once, then twice as his lungs struggle to match the speed of his heart. He just can’t seem to draw a full breath and for the first time since his fifth birthday, he misses his old inhaler.

Peter tries to channel his frustration into a sigh, but it comes out distorted like it’s bouncing off the inside of a fishbowl.

Jean gives him another look.

“They must’ve taken him somewhere else.“

It is clearly directed at him and he would have been annoyed if he wasn’t too busy trying to get his organs to cooperate long enough to get out a response.

“There goes our escape route.“ He eventually rasps, a bit late to the conversation for it to be truly funny.

“We'll just have to figure out something else from here.“ The words are way too optimistic for Scott’s tone and everyone picks up on it.

“How do you propose we do that in these?“ Storm pulls the restraints up to illustrate her point.

“And there’s guards outside.“ Jean adds drily.

He’s about to ask how the hell she’d know that if their powers don’t work in there, but gets cut off halfway through by the psychic herself.

“Just because I can’t actively seek out minds, doesn’t mean some thoughts don’t leak through.”

The _you of all should know that_ goes unsaid.

“Well, is anyone thinking something useful?“ Peter scoffs because no one can get him on the defense quite like she can. He should’ve dropped her in the lake when he had the chance.

“Not sure, but if you stay quiet I might find out.“ She quips back and the group goes silent.

It’s not a good silent, but a heavy, our lives might be over soon, kind of quiet. The kind that makes a room feel like it’s shrinking.

Jean’s breathing strains and a trickle of blood runs down her nose, but her eyes remain shut.

A few more minutes go by and she groans, head hitting her chest, smearing some of the blood on her uniform.

Scott doesn’t seem to be able to take the silence anymore.

“Jean?“ He asks, voice uncharacteristically small.

Jean’s head snaps back up at the mention of her name, she blinks a few times, like she’s been out for hours not seconds and breathes heavily.

“They’re going to contaminate the water supply.“ Is all she says, which doesn’t answer questions as much as it is providing them with new questions and Peter has long run out of patience.

“With what?“ He asks.

“Does it matter?“ Oruro snaps at him.

Jean doesn’t seem to mind. She seems more confused than the rest if anything. She continues to speak as if she’s dreaming.

“They keep talking about a _blue ape mixture_? They don’t actually seem to know what it is either … But from what I can gather, it’ll activate and enhance any mutant gene it comes in contact with.”

Jean's eyes flutter as she speaks like she’s slipping in and out of _somewhere_ and it’s really unsettling to watch, like _The Exorcist_ kind of unsettling. Peter figures as long as she stays clear of projectile vomiting, he can deal with it.

“Wait, _blue ape_? Like Beast?“ Scratch that, Scott seems like he’s the most confused.

Oruro is quick to jump to their mentor’s defense.

“Why would Professor McCoy make a mixture like that?”

Jean uses her normal voice this time.

“All I know is that we don’t want something like that hitting the water supply. There would be hundreds, maybe thousands of new mutant manifestations, with no control over their powers.”

“Great.“ Peter adds because that’s really fucking depressing and the whole being shackled thing really doesn’t five him much of an option outside witty banter.

Scott takes a different approach, naturally as he has a stick up his ass, and decides to state the obvious.

“We have to stop them.”

“Again, how do we stop them in these?“ Oruro pulls at the chains once more, even harder this time. For a moment, Peter sees a current wind through the ceiling and the world slows down. His body’s singing, he’s moving, just a bit more and he’ll be fr–

And just like that, it’s over.

“No wait, do that again!”

“Why?“ Oruro doesn’t seem convinced. No doubt remembering the last time he showed up in training.

“I think I can get us out of the orb-things, just, trust me, ok?”

But no one does. At least not quick enough for it to be of use. While the rest of the musketeers give each other looks, none other than Magneto steps into the room. Peter does his best to remain unaffected, as showing just how invested he is in a certain terrorist wouldn’t help his case in the slightest.

“Ah, you are all awake I see. You must be confused, l…“ He starts, but Peter interrupts him.

“Stop. Just stop. We’ve already figured out your master plan. Blah, contaminate the water supply, blah blah, turn everyone into freaks like us, we get it, you’re crazy.”

“Now.“ Magneto pauses for dramatic effect and for a weird moment Peter experiences what he imagines it must be like when you realize your dad is about to tell a joke, a very bad dad joke.

“Is that the way to speak to your father?“ He continues, eyebrow raised, mouth pulled in a tight but slightly amused smile.

 _Boom, there it is_ , he thinks bitterly. He wants to hang his head in shame, and maybe regret, but also curse at every possible higher power for putting him in this situation. Instead, he keeps his gaze level and his tone casual.

“She told you? _What a bitch_.“

“You had your chances.“ The nonchalance in his voice cuts like a knife, but Peter bites his tongue this time, trying to ignore the small fact that the entire room is now staring at him.

“I see … your mother didn’t teach you to respect your elders.“ Magneto goads.

“Nah, just to respect those who deserve it.“ He quips back, fully aware that he’s playing into the other’s hands and still not being able to resist.

“And humanity does? They’re a weak and narrow-minded race, doomed to extinction. The true crime would be to not widen their prospects.”

Jean cuts in.

“And what about the people that don’t carry the gene?”

There is a pause as if he honestly hadn’t thought that far.

“There’s no cause without casualty.“ He finally states.

“I think we’ll pass.“ Oruro is smiling but her words are scathing.

Magneto gives her a mock-smile in return.

“You of all people should know what happens to those who refuse change.“ He says, voice dripping with condescension.

“I’m presenting you an opportunity to be on the right side of history. We could lead this town into the next step of evolution, as a team, as family.“ There’s no doubt to whom the last word is directed at as he punctuates it by returning his gaze to Peter.

It feels like a cruel joke, he’s sure that the universe is laughing somewhere.

Haha, let’s just have Peter push away all the only people that could understand him. It’s okay, he’ll have his dad. Only, get this, he is a fucking lunatic that wants to destroy the human race.

What a punchline.

Bile rises up to the back of his mouth, but he forces it back down.

“You know, when you told me you knew crazy, I honestly didn’t think it was this bad.”

Jean snickers.

Magneto simply raises an eyebrow again.

“Is that a no?”

“It sure as hell isn’t a yes!“ Scott exclaims, startling everyone with his support.

Peter meets his eyes, or well, shades. It feels … good? And weird, really weird, they’re not supposed to agree. But suddenly Jean and Storm give him encouraging looks and nods too.

It’s all very surreal.

And quick, because it’s Peter – the one and only Quicksilver.

“Sorry to say, daddy-o, but I’m going to have to pass.“ He concludes.

The sentence is apparently what hammers it home as Storm sends another bout of electricity his way, just enough to slow time down for a fraction of a second, but a fraction of a second is all he needs. He’s phased through the restraints in record time and gotten his friends out of theirs even faster.

Peter mouths words of gratitude at each and everyone one of them before speeding off. There’s no way their brains could register it at the speed he’s going, but he hopes some part of them feels the sentiment.

 

* * *

 

Peter finds Kurt two floors up, in a much smaller cell.

Mystique seems to be having an argument with him. Most likely she’s giving him her own version of the mutant superiority spiel Magneto just sprouted.

He supposes he should let her explain, but frankly, Peter’s sat through enough of explaining for one night. So he chooses to knock her out with a light tap to the head instead. Then he gets to work on getting his _Freund_ unsuspended.

“Peter?”

“The one and only! Now let’s– “

Peter doesn’t register that there’s something different about the familiar gust of smoke until the devil himself rematerializes in front of him.

“ _Boo_!”

The devil grasps his shoulder, claws digging in deep into the padding of his jacket. He tries to wiggle away, but it’s already too late.

They’re gone.

Without the support of Peter’s arms, Kurt plummets face first towards the floor. But he flips last minute, only just avoiding a kiss with the tiles and lands in a taut bow.

He inhales and thanks the Lord for those early mornings he and his adopted sister spent playing with the swings and tightrope. Even now he can almost hear her laughter and the roar of the crowd that used to accompany it. He exhales.

Heat creeps up his neck. His best friend is in danger, it’s time to assess and help, not showmanship.

It’s a full-on brawl, but it’s hard to get a sense who has the upper hand with all the reappearing and disappearing. Someone gets a slap then they’re across the room, someone lands a hit, there’s a hiss and they’re gone again.

“Peter, I can’t see you. You have to stop!“ Kurt tries yelling through the flurry but every time he gets close they turn up somewhere new. There’s no pattern in their fighting, no strategy, just fight and flight in a horrible tornado of red and silver.

There’s loud rip, like claws through skin.

For a horrible moment, Kurt thinks it’s all over, but then they reappear across the room and a loud “Claws _off_ the jacket!“ puts his mind to ease, at least for the moment.

There is no way his friend is going to be able to keep the upper hand for long, but with the speed they’re going… how is he supposed to get to them?

Kurt racks his brain for all the signals and codewords he knows.

Bluebird, Formation, Apocalypse? Ugh.

They don’t mean anything to Peter because he hasn’t shown up to group strategy even once. And there’s no way he can help without shouting something that would guarantee to get his attention.

Then, just like that, he remembers something that would.

Kurt takes a deep breath and yells “PIETRO!” at the top of his lungs.

“What?“ Peter finally skids to a halt, if only for a second.

A second is all the _incredible Nightcrawler_ needs in order to teleport-tackle the boy out of Azazel's reach. Azazel, however, would’ve needed at least two to avoid crashing face first into the wall.

There’s a sickening crunch.

The noise echoes through the room and by the time it fades Kurt has already made a quick turn-around, only to reappear by his father’s side. Quicksilver’s in tow but a step behind for once.

For a while, they just stare.

It’s not a dignified sight. Azazel’s toppled over himself, a long cut’s split his hairline open and his shoulder’s jutting out at an odd angle. Kurt prays to every saint he can think of as he checks his pulse. The Saints are kind and he’s rewarded with a steady hum beneath his fingertips.

His _father_ is alive.

“Huh. You know…“ Peter places a hand on Kurt’s shoulder.

“ _Ja ja, Freunde_ first, witty one-liners later.“ Kurt smiles as he surprises the speedster once more by clasping said hand and teleporting away.

Whatever his friend has to say he’s not in the mood to hear it.

 

* * *

 

When they finally rejoin their teammates, Jean is unconscious. Kurt is first to ask.

“What happened?”

“You should’ve seen her, she held off Magneto all on her own!“ Scott claims voice straining a bit at the edges from the weight of carrying said unconscious Jean.

“We helped knock him out once we’d taken care of the guards.“ Oruro clarifies.

Scott ignores her and starts to proudly recount the highlights of their battle while cradling his girlfriend a bit closer.

Kurt listens intently all starry-eyed and proud … and Peter, well just doesn’t have the patience for another break at this point.

“Cool story, mind if we share the details at a later date? Like after we’ve gotten the hell out of here?”

At the mention of leaving, Scott’s excited expression turned somber.

“We can’t just leave the serum in their hands.”

“Serum?“ Kurt asks as none has bothered to fill him in as per usual.

Peter knows he probably should, but really he’s already reached his doing-as-told quota for the day. A groan and the distant echo of “Fine.“ is all anyone’s getting before he’s out of here.

(The “For the record I hate it when you’re right.“ that echoes from a nearby ventilation shaft, wasn’t him and it’ll continue to be not him until his deathbed.)

The gang ends up waiting ten whole minutes for him to return.

When he does, he’s cradling three cylindrical vials, filled with a mixture that’s clear, not blue as they’d been lead to believe. The mixture looks surprisingly harmless given the situation.

“I think these are the last ones.“ He says.

“Are you sure that’s it?“ Scott asks, forever Captain Obvious.

“No.“ Peter says just make sure Scott knows what an ass he is. As the words leave his mouth, the walls tremble slightly.

The tile beneath Oruro buckles.

“Something tells me that’s our cue.“ She says and another tile cracks, as if to prove her point.

“Kurt, get us outta here!“ Scott demands and squeezes his shoulder.

Kurt gives a reluctant nod and the others grab hold of a hand each.

 _3, 2, 1_ \- Nothing happens.

Kurt starts to get nervous. They don’t have much choice and even if he has grown more confident in his power since last time he had to teleport them, he’s going further than ever before and without a clear line of sight.

A warm hand squeezes his.

“Hey, you got this.“ The speedster whispers just low enough for his friend to hear.

They rematerialize in Peter’s room.


	6. Burn, baby burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Kurt have a little heart to heart after celebrating Magneto's latest defeat, things escalate. Rated 16+ for making out and implied sexual activity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for all of you who waited. If the end isn't what you expected that'll be because I'm currently writing a oneshot collection that's turning into a sequel... Sorry not sorry? 
> 
> ALSO if you feel like you can't wait to have more nightsilver please go check out Shikipon's "Everything is blue" as she is much better at updating regularly than I am. She's also been an angel and helped me out big time with the german/latin in this fic as well as general beta-reading. (She might also be super-talanted and have the best headcanons but you didn't hear it from me shh!)
> 
> \---> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11100804/chapters/25227834

The institute might as well have been deserted this late at night, it certainly looked deserted judging by the sorry state it was in. Ok, the state the old living room was in, the empty archways, were mostly fine.

Said living room was one of the few places in the school which had remained practically unchanged since the time the school had been a private estate. It was a classic environment full of lavish detailing, books, and priceless artwork. It was the kind of place you’d expect to find an old man contemplating life in front of the open fireplace.

The only reason the living room had survived this far was the fact that it was only ever used for internal morning meetings between teachers and for strategy workshops with the new generation of X-Men. The latter being postponed indefinitely due to a certain mutiny a week prior.

At this time of night, the living room too should have been deserted, but as any savvy passerby could have told you: it was not. In fact, said passerby might have gone on to describe the pulsing lights, what looked like an indoor hurricane, and laughter. Had they ventured inside, they would have found the remnants of said storm. The middle row of each bookshelf had been spread across the expensive parquet floor, which was also littered with pizza boxes, various articles of clothing, along with an unhealthy amount off-brand vodka bottles and wine coolers.

In the epicenter of said mess, you’d find the three reigning champions of the victory celebration squad; Jubilee, Kurt, and Peter. All three were more or less engaged in a game of poker. It was supposed to be “strip” poker, but after Scott had lost three rounds in a row and the next item to go was his shirt, Peter had accused Jean of cheating. An argument which she had won despite not having outright denied the accusation. The strip rule had nevertheless been vetoed and Oruro had excused herself with the excuse of an early morning class. Jean wandered down towards the dorms shortly after, a laughing Scott trailing behind her.

Knowing that that she wouldn’t sleep in the room she and Jean shared tonight, Jubilee opened yet another unnamed bottle of hard liquor. A bottle which she’d slowly downed all by herself as the game continued. Currently, she had reached the point of intoxication where she’d giggle at every accented word that came out of the German devil’s mouth. Something that meant almost every word since said blue devil was pretty wasted himself.

So far, Kurt had dropped and caught his cards (with his tail) a total of five times, while Jubilee had shown her hand before betting at least twice as many. So, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Peter, the only somewhat sober of the three, had been cheating for the last half hour.

“Go fish!” Jubilee cries as she lets her cards rain over them like a low budget version of her fireworks.

“Vrong kame, Fräulein.” Kurt comments, his words somehow manage to come out cut too short and slurred together at the same time.

Jubilee straightens and her face turns sour. For a while, she just stares at Kurt while he fidgets. Then she finally reaches out her right hand and pokes his nose.

“Kuuurt, quit ruining my jokes.” She giggles.

Kurt let’s out a small “ah.” and smiles in relief.

Peter rolls his eyes at the display.

“I’m not responsible enough to say this, but I think you guys need to chill with the alcohol.” He says, growing a tad exasperated with the lack of focus of his fellow teammates. Peter doesn’t have enough patience to wait for a response and ends up doing away with the rest of the booze, in use and otherwise.

“Awh, nooo, Peter.” Jubilee whines as she falls to the floor from the sheer momentum of having her bottle plucked out of her hands.

“Peder. Don’t spoilsport!” Kurt complains.

“That’s not how–” Peter starts.

A large snore from Jubilee interrupts him.

Both boys turn to her, expecting it to be another of her bad jokes. Instead, they find her folded over the couch they’d been using as a backrest, very much asleep.

“Vov.”

“Huh.”

With Jubilee out, the air feels, different somehow, like it’s less easy to breathe. To Peter, the entire room feels clammy, like the silence is clinging to his clothes, not his restless mind. Kurt doesn’t seem as bothered, probably due to all the aforementioned drinking.

“That’s fast, even by my standards.” Peter comments.

“Vant to continue?” Kurt asks, motioning to the scattered cards and the air suddenly feels more or less normal again.

“Still haven’t given up beating me? Bring it, blue boy.” Peter counters, crossing his arms a bit too quickly, only to have a pair he had picked up from the last round comes flying out of his jacket sleeve.

A certain three-fingered hand is quick to grab onto said sleeve.

“You vere cheating!” Kurt exclaims in a way that suggests that maybe he took the game more seriously than his slurred words would have suggested. Peter, on the other hand, feels the lack of sleep calling and is in no mood to deal with an annoyed Nightcrawler just now.

No matter how cute his pout was.

”Hey now, you know what they say, all is fair in drinking and gambling.” Peter explains matter-of-factly.

A wink later, he’s gone. But a teleporter that knows all your hiding places is kind of hard to outrun, so Peter finds himself pinned to the floor somewhere between the kitchen and the library.

”You cheated.” Kurt repeats and this time a lot clearer to understand, his teeth bared in a smile and tail whipping wildly around him. Any traces of intoxication seem to have been replaced by the adrenaline of mischief.

_Well, two could play that game._

”Whoa, Kuuurt. It was just a game.” Peter raises his hands innocently as he speaks, only to go for his friend’s sides, tickling him mercilessly.

This was however not the brightest idea as Kurt’s tail, which was already thrashing, decides to attack the speedsters face in order to get it to stop.

“OW. Shit, dude. Not cool.” Peter says while rubbing his cheek. It doesn’t feel like it pierced his skin, so Peter decides to not hold it against him … unless it swells that is, then it would be payback time.

But Kurt, not being a mind-reader, has already started sprouting apologizes.

“ _Mein Gott!_ Are you alright? I did not mean– I am so sorry, my tail doesn’t always–”

Peter, being Peter, decides that the best course of action is to interrupt the teleporter by lightly tapping one side of Kurt’s face with the back of his hand.

“Now we're even.” He says and then bops him on the nose, just because he can.

This, of course, makes Kurt bop his nose, which makes Peter shove him off, which makes Kurt punch his arm, which makes Peter retaliate… and so it goes on. They end up playing a really weird game of tag, teleporting and speeding from room to room, knocking over a very expensive lamp, all the kitchens utensils, three shelves of priceless books and the dining room table as they go.

That is until Kurt makes a move for Peter's knees and they fall to the ground once more.

“Stop! I give up” He yells, eyes still squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to regain some form of direction after the constant zapping and reappearing.

“Jesus fucking Christ just…” He trails off.

Kurt is on top of him, but it’s not like before. This time there is approximately minus 10% space between their _private parts_ and as if that wasn’t awkward enough he finds that their faces are way, way closer than they should be, like feeling the other’s breathing on his eyelids close.

Their noses are practically touching, their lips too for that matter.

_Badump-badump-thump_

Kurt is the one that leans in. It’s just a peck on the lips, or technically a half on the lips half on his cheek.

Yet, it’s currently taking every working muscle in Peter’s body to not pull him in for more. It feels like fighting the tide, or maybe even gravity itself.

So they just hover for a while, a hairsbreadth apart.

But Peter’s sure he is going to close the distance, the way you can be sure that the sun will rise or that the rain will stop. It’s fact, inevitable. His heart practically buzzes with the knowledge.

_Badum-badum-badump-badum_

Peter finally leans in and – finds himself kissing blue streaked air. The taste of Sulphur falls like in bitter coat over his tongue and the buzzing turns into nausea.

Reality hits him like a slap in the face.

Kurt, the incredible Nightcrawler, his male best friend, kissed him and he, Pietro Maximoff, the one and only Quicksilver, wanted to kiss him in return.

He wanted to kiss a blue elf boy, with an accent.

He still kind of wants to kiss him, like really kiss him.

Kiss him until the air runs out and he can’t feel anything but him pressed up against him.

But at the same time, he also wants to implode out of pure shame for even thinking something like that. So, he ends up doing neither and just lies on the floor, counting the seconds, in hopes that Kurt will come back.

Luckily for him, Kurt reappears just to the left, on a bed, his own bed, judging by the decor. That is unless some other student just happens to own like 50 books in German, while also nurturing a bordering on unhealthy obsession with Michael Jackson.

”I-I am sorry, I shouldn’t have ... _that_ was wrong!” He spits out the words as if he’s afraid of them, afraid of himself. It makes Peter want to break his own rules and just pull him close, he needs to be near him, needs him to not make that face.

Peter settles on appearing next to the guy, taking a hold of a three-fingered hand in the process just in case he tried to disappear again.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not mad, it’s fine…” He rambles, trying desperately not to notice how warm his fingers are between his, how much he wished he still was on that floor.

But the moment brown eyes meet dull yellow, he knows it’s a lost cause.

 _Kurt’s religious and not into– it was a mistake, must have been._ The thought makes him numb in the weirdest of ways like he doesn’t believe it, but also does and it **hurts.**

“No, okay, fine.” He changes tactic and tries to find an excuse, something that would explain how this is a perfectly natural cause of events, but falls short.

The silence feels heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Wrong.

It makes Peter all jittery in all the wrong ways and he can’t help but fidget, pulling away his hand and to scratch a place that’s not even itchy. His mind should be stuffed with enough one-liners to salvage this situation and a thousand more, but it’s like his tongue just won’t work. He keeps his mouth slightly ajar though as if hoping that if he just doesn’t close it, words might just start streaming on their own.

Needless to say, Kurt is the first to speak. (Technically he sighs, then speaks.)  

“I’m going to end up just like my parents.” He mumbles under his breath. If Peter didn’t know him so well, his accent would have likely made the sentence unintelligible.

It’s a curveball of a topic, to say the least, but Peter’s practically ecstatic at the notion of any topic where he can actually manage to not be a gigantic splotch of awkward.

“Woooow, okay back it up, what? I thought you were proud of all that Munich showmanship.” He makes a friendly jab at Kurt’s ribs as he speaks.

Kurt doesn’t as much look at him as he half glares out of the corner of his eye, but Peter considers it progress if not a win and waggles his eyebrows in good-natured fun.

A smile tugs on his friend’s lips, but his expression quickly turns into something that maybe could be considered _guilty._ Peter has never wanted to switch powers before, but right now he would give anything to know why Kurt’s left incisor digs into his lip like it’s trying to keep his lips from spilling a secret.

What ends up coming out of said lips is another curveball.

“I found out who my biological parents are.” Kurt blurts it out, the fear is back in his voice and realization hits Peter like a ton of bricks.

He had been so focused on his own daddy issues to dwell on, but the battle with Azazel had been uncanny. Just by looking at the guy, I mean, you would have to be an idiot to not see that there was a connection, with the tail and primary color and all.

Still.

Peter should have known, should probably have asked. He wasn’t good with asking but he would hope that with all the time he had spent around Kurt he would at least have picked up that much.

Apparently not – as he doesn’t know what to say.

“So Azazel?” Is what ends up coming out, practically on its own accord.

“And Mystique.” Kurt smiles when he says the name, but it sounds off somehow like it’s the name of a monster in a cautionary bedtime story.

“Whaaat? Really?” Peter exclaims before he can catch himself. “Uh … I mean … that sucks.” He tries to backpedal but fails miserably.

Or, well, half miserably, Kurt is looking at him again.

“ _Ja_ , it would be the definition of _that sucks_.” He sounds annoyed, looks annoyed too with his crossed arms and swaying tail, but Peter has never been the type to let that get to him, so he takes a hold of Kurt's three-fingered hands and squeezes them to show he means business.

“Well, if we’re destined to become our parents, you’ll have to get me a comb because my helmet hair is BAD and I’m not cutting off my luscious locks just for some outrageous headwear.” He says.

But Kurt doesn’t respond. He only blinks slowly. Peter can practically see his brain whirring, he assumes that something must have gotten lost in translation and tries to elaborate.

“It was a joke. You know, because of my dad?”

Kurt cocks his head to the side as if physically moving his head might help him get a new perspective. As usual, this makes his bangs fall into his eyes, and he pretends not to be bothered by it, even though it clearly messes with his line of sight. It would be adorable if it wouldn't mean Kurt probably didn’t know. And he knew … right?

“Y’know Magneto? My father, Erik Lensherr, the metal-bending terrorist in the funky helmet. The one who kidnapped us just now.” Peter clarifies just to be sure.

Kurt drops his hands like a sack of moldy onions and shuffles back, his face suddenly pale and mouth ajar.

“Come on, I told you … right?” Peter says and desperately tries to remember the time where he joked about it in front of Kurt or hinted at it during a party or just _something_.

The way Kurt’s jaw tightens once more seems to confirm Peter’s fear that the only one who’s opinion even matters to him, is the one that does not know.

“No, you didn’t! Does everyone else know?” Kurt hisses at him.

“No, okay, you can’t blame me, it’s practically common knowledge at this point!” Peter replies as he does not appreciate being hissed at. Then again, Kurt _had_ been kept in a different cell so he missed the little exposition dump his dad gave them and everyone had been tactful enough to stay clear of the topic after the battle, as if not to hurt Peter's precious little feelings.

“That does not make it better.” Kurt says and glares at him, crossing his arms in defiance.

Disapproval is not a look Peter has seen on him often. It was usually reserved for whenever he crossed a line of some sort, usually with a distasteful joke or accidental property damage. He hated that look because he knew that it not only meant that he had hurt him, but that Kurt, being slow to judgement of any kind, was probably justified in his anger.

So Peter stays silent because now he is annoyed too, but with himself and getting into this entire situation. He should know better than to assume that his German friend would pick up on the small stuff given his limited understanding of American culture and language. He just never thought it would be this big of a deal is all. So what if his father is crazy? Didn’t they just establish both their parents were?

Kurt’s tail starts fidgeting and his hands keep flexing and unflexing like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. He bites his lip before speaking.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I kissed someone like you.” He says, hiding behind his bangs again.

Peter is pretty sure it’s meant to be a joke, but it hits home all the same. His heart feels like it’s been set on fire and he hates it. The hurt must’ve shown on the outside too because Kurt’s face has twisted into one of concern, which just makes the ache even worse.

“Peter? Come on. You’re my _male_ teammate… _mein bester Freund_.” The fact that the last words are spoken with such uncertainty turns the burn into a full on tear, like his heart has split in two.

“So what?” Peter forces his voice to stay even. But deep down he knows that Kurt is right. Men don’t kiss other men unless you count the creeps that pop up in the news ever so often. The ones with porn star mustaches that beckon kids into white vans with the promise of candy. The only other kind of queer showed up as bloated corpses, taken by AIDS.

Homosexuality is reserved for the clinically insane, he had been told.

But now, it just doesn’t _feel_ right, like maybe the narrative has been skewed, vilified. The way mutants were portrayed wasn’t the most favorable either. Then again mutants weren’t being killed off by the new plague. If anything, Peter’s sudden need to protest just has to prove that crazy does exist in his genes as well, right?

“It doesn’t bother you…?” Kurt trails off halfway like he doesn’t know how to continue.

“No.” Peter replies without pause and then regrets it immediately. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. Besides, it was barely a kiss. Who knows? You could’ve just slipped.” He rambles, desperately trying to find an answer that would just end this conversation already so he can go to sleep and blame all of this on the late hour and booze.

Kurt still doesn’t seem convinced.

“I’m giving you an out here, take it.” Peter flops onto the bed and briefly considers falling asleep right then and there.

“An out?” Kurt asks in that curious tone that isn’t meant to be annoying but is annoying because Peter has got a headache and is in no mood to explain anything further. At least not with words, they’re too slow and take too much effort. Which is how he justifies pinning Kurt’s arms above his head, leaning in real close again and hovering over his lips, just a second later.

“See? _It_ happens.” He says, lips “accidentally” brushing together as he speaks.

And suddenly there is a buzzing electricity that wasn’t there before, which is when he realizes this might not have been such a good idea after all. That he should put some distance between them. But Kurt is already pulling him closer via tail. It doesn’t take more than a second to get him full on lip locked with the boy beneath.

Things go south pretty fast.

Peter moves too quickly and nicks himself on Kurt’s fangs. Judging by the taste of blood and stinging, there’s a small rasp on the left side of his tongue

Kurt looks mortified beyond belief with his violet face, blue-streaked hair is standing on end and tail curling in on itself.

He whispers a small “Sorry” and for a moment Peter worries he won’t want to continue.

But then a shy smile appears in the corners of his lips and he bats those big yellow eyes.

“Tis but a scratch” Peter insists and makes sure to kiss Kurt’s nose and cheeks to prove that he’s not upset. Which leads them back to kissing.

Unsure just where his hands are allowed to roam, Peter decides to busy them with removing Kurt’s ugly red and blue hand-me-downs. With the shirt already hiked halfway up Kurt’s abdomen, Peter realizes that he’s never seen the other man shirtless and that Kurt’s very physical mutation could have left him with other _alterations_ , like back spikes or something.

Luckily, he finds that Kurt is built very much like the average human, if only slightly leaner due to his acrobatic background.

Something that does surprise him is that the tattoos don’t stop at his neck and that his body is covered in them. There are lines everywhere, running down his neck, winding around his shoulders, across his abdomen, only to disappear down the hem of his pants.

Peter decides he wants to trace them with his tongue. So he tugs off the rest of the shirt and goes ahead.

The pants are quick to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peter finds himself staring at said hand in disbelief, the proof of their activity covering his fingers.

 _Wow, so that’s a thing, that happened._ _Right._

He tries spreading his index and middle finger but finds the white liquid doesn’t give easily…

_Gross._

He still wants to taste it though, so he sticks one finger in his mouth. It’s bitter and salty.

 _Gross indeed,_ he concludes.

The gesture seems to catch Kurt’s attention, but not in a good way. He seems scandalized, hiding his face in his hands. Incoherent Latin mixed with German starts streaming from his lips.

“Mein Gott, dimittite peccatum mihi…”

Peter tries reaching for Kurt’s shoulder with his goo-free hand, but he leans away, voice growing louder and more frantic. A lump forms somewhere deep inside his chest, _maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all…_

Peter isn’t keen on talking about any more personal things, so he grabs the blue boy’s three fingered hands and places them on his face.

Kurt gives him a look, one eyebrow raised, a smile threatening to turn into a scowl. He’s annoyed, confused maybe, but not angry, not devastated.

It takes a while for Peter to find his words with Kurt staring at him.

“Well, if you’re going to pray the gay away… Don’t forget about me.” He finally manages.

Yellow eyes crinkle, _Stop being ridiculous_ , they say. Then he gets a kiss on the nose.

Peter hears himself laugh and there’s warmth spreading across his cheeks and he’s smiling.

 _Ugh, how is he so adorable, what the fuck?_ He thinks and proceeds to wrap his arms around the other’s neck and face with kisses.

Kurt laughs, finally, as he runs his lips over a particularly sensitive spot.

_Oops._

Peter’s going to have to apologize for leaving his neck looking like he’d been attacked by a swarm of leeches, but to be fair, he didn’t think any marks would be visible given the others complexion, but you live and you learn – and frankly, he's not sure he'd done anything differently as didn't really give consequences of any kind much thought anyway.

Three clawed fingers run through silver tresses and Peter finds himself being guided to Kurt’s chest. He lets his head rest there, listening to the other’s heartbeat. It’s a good beat.

Somewhere close that seems an eternity away, Kurt’s mumbling Latin again, albeit less frantic this time. But it’s okay because his fingers are weaving through Peter’s hair and drawing shapes across his jawline. It feels nice. So nice in fact, that when time slows down Peter slows down with it for once, letting the lack of sleep catch him and falling promptly asleep.


End file.
